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ANTHONY CUTHBERT 








ANTHONY 

CUTHBERT 


BY 

RICHARD BAGOT 

\ I 

AUTHOR OF “A ROMAN MYSTERY ” 


\ 


“ IL Y A UNE PAGE EFFRAYANTE DANS LE 
LIVRE DES D^STIN^ES HUMAINES: ON Y LIT EN 
T&TE CES MOTS ‘ LES D&SIRS ACCOMPLIS ” 



NEW YORK 

BRENTANO’S 

I 9°9 






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ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


CHAPTER I 


^THONY CUTHBERT, of Cuthbertsheugh in the county 



r\ of Northumberland, was, unlike many bearers of Northum- 
brian names scarcely less ancient than his own, a rich man. 

If former generations of Cuthberts had gambled and drank, 
and kept open house in the old, genial Northumbrian way, the 
reigning squire of Cuthbertsheugh had not suffered financially 
thereby. Anthony Cuthbert’s father, who, like his father and 
his grandfather before him, had also been called Anthony, had 
married a woman of large fortune, and this fortune had been 
very strictly tied up by her marriage settlements. Perhaps the 
knowledge that he could only touch the interest of his wife’s 
capital had made the late squire more careful of his money than 
many of his neighbours had considered it necessary to be of their 
own. As a matter of fact, he had been something of a miser, 
and was perpetually haunted by the idea that he was a poor man. 
His wife had borne him eleven children ; but the Northumbrian 
climate, conducing as it does to the survival of the fittest, had 
successfully defeated this thoughtless fertility. Out of these 
eleven babies, who had arrived in the world apparently more 
or less equipped for a journey through life, only six had travelled 
any distance along the road; and of these six, only two, the 
actual possessor of Cuthbertsheugh and his sister, Miss Jane 
Cuthbert, were still travelling. 

The natural thing would of course have been, that Miss 
Cuthbert, when her brother’s wife died leaving him a lone and 
childless widower, should have gone to Cuthbertsheugh to keep 
house for him. Between the brother and sister, however, little 


i 


2 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


sympathy existed. Miss Cuthbert was given up to good works , 
or, to speak more accurately, she was given up to the inciting ot 
others to perform them. She was deeply religious, and her 
religion was cast in a decidedly limited and evangelical mould ; 
whereas her brother Anthony was by no means religiously 
inclined, but was to all intents and purposes a freethinker. 
After her sister-in-law’s death, Miss Cuthbert had made a valiant 
effort to live with her brother at Cuthbertsheugh. The manage, 
however, had not been a success. After a few months’ trial, Miss 
Cuthbert had declared herself unable to live in a godless 
atmosphere, and Anthony Cuthbert had not sought to dissuade 
her from trying a change of air. She had accordingly retired to 
the little house she had formerly occupied in the outskirts of 
Alnwick, where she sought consolation in district visiting, and 
in becoming an active member of the local branch of a society 
for the promotion of interference between servant-girls and 
their employers. 

And so Anthony Cuthbert had been for some years left 
alone in the old house at Cuthbertsheugh — a great, square block 
of buildings erected at different dates round the nucleus of a 
massive peel-tower of the twelfth century. The present owner 
of Cuthbertsheugh had by no means inherited the tastes of 
a long line of Northumbrian ancestors for hard living and 
hard drinking. As a matter of course he was a sportsman. 
Born and bred under the shadow of the Cheviots, he could 
scarcely have failed to have sporting instincts. But, unlike 
many of his neighbours, Mr. Cuthbert was a cultured man as 
well as a sportsman. He was a man, moreover, who could 
and did think for himself ; and consequently, even in his earlier 
days, when he had hunted and shot and fished with the keenest 
and hardest of his brother squires, he had never been obliged 
to resort to the whisky-bottle for companionship when kept 
within doors. 

Of late years, however, and more especially since his wife’s 
death, Anthony Cuthbert had led an increasingly secluded life. 
At rare intervals he would appear in the hunting-field, always 
well mounted, and always riding hard when hard riding was 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


3 


necessary. Every November the coverts at Cuthbertsheugh 
afforded four days’ shooting which, although on no exaggerated 
scale, was regarded as being among the best in the northern 
portion of the county. On these occasions Mr. Cuthbert would 
show himself to be an excellent and agreeable host, and Cuth- 
bertsheugh a comfortable and well-ordered establishment. 

The place had about it a peculiar fascination. Those whose 
only knowledge of Northumberland is gained from looking out 
of the windows of a railway carriage between Newcastle and 
Berwick have little idea that they are traversing one of the most 
picturesque, as it is one of the most historically interesting 
counties in England. On one side of him the traveller on the 
North-Eastern main line sees flat fields of stubble or turnips ; on 
the other side a sullen sea breaking on a low, rock-bound coast. 
The natural beauties lying beyond that strip of arable land — the 
glorious, wide- spreading moors, purple in late summer and russet- 
brown in winter ; the still woodlands ; the rivers and streams, 
castle-crowned, now gliding under wooded banks, now tumbling 
through rocky ravines — are hidden from the sight of the traveller 
in a Scotch express train. Consequently, there are those who 
assert — may God forgive them ! — that Northumberland is an uglv 
county. 

The house at Cuthbertsheugh stood, surrounded by woods, 
below a long ridge of basaltic rocks — one of those ridges which 
are locally termed “heughs” — from which the place derived its 
name, and which afforded shelter from the fierce easterly gales 
that sweep across the North Sea. A low, battlemented gateway, 
the last remains of the outer defences of a mediaeval fortress, 
gave access to an avenue of ancient lime-trees from the high-road 
leading to the Scottish border some fifteen miles distant. At the 
end of this avenue rose the square peel-tower, massive and grey 
of hue, on either side of which the more modern portions of the 
house had been added at different periods. 

A terraced garden lay in front of the house, and from its 
broad grass walks could be seen a wide expanse of hill and dale, 
of wood and moorland, stretching away to the Cheviots on the 
western horizon. 


4 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


Walking slowly up and down one of these terraces, and 
stopping every now and then to look at the gorgeous tints of an 
autumn sunset clothing the distant Cheviots with a mantle of 
purple and gold, Mr. Cuthbert of Cuthbertsheugh was engaged 
in earnest conversation with a good-looking young man of appar- 
ently some six or seven and twenty years of age. Although he 
would soon never see fifty again, Anthony Cuthbert was scarcely 
less good-looking in his way than his companion, who was also 
his nephew. There was, indeed, an indescribable charm of 
manner and bearing about Anthony Cuthbert which few people 
of either sex could be long in his company and fail to realise, 
provided always that he took the trouble to allow it to appear. 
Very frequently, however, he did not take this trouble ; and then 
he would pass for a silent, reserved man, engrossed in his own 
thoughts and indifferent to those of his neighbours. 

When Mrs. Cuthbert died, the said neighbours had unani- 
mously decided that the squire of Cuthbertsheugh would marry 
again at no very distant date. So far as some of them were 
concerned the wish had been father to the thought, and candi- 
dates for the vacant position had not been wanting. Years had 
passed, however, and Anthony Cuthbert had shown no signs of 
wishing to renew bonds which death had broken. Some people 
declared that he was an embittered man, and others that he was 
an egoist. There were not wanting others, again, who shook their 
heads and whispered of a mistress who was probably French. 
Sometimes the mistress was elevated into the position of a wife, 
and credited with a family which, at the squire’s death, would 
appear on the scene and lay claim to Cuthbertsheugh. 

But in the meantime Mr. Cuthbert himself, whenever he 
vouchsafed to speak of his affairs, had recently alluded to his 
nephew, Captain James Sinclair, as his probable heir and suc- 
cessor. It was with this nephew, the son of a sister who had 
died when her only child was on the verge of manhood, that 
Anthony Cuthbert was conversing on an October evening beneath 
the grey walls of Cuthbertsheugh. 


CHAPTER II 


u TT’S an infernal sell, Uncle Anthony, and I don’t pretend 
JL that it isn’t,” the younger man was saying ; “but ” 

Anthony Cuthbert turned aside to tie up a mass of crimson 
dahlias which had broken away from the stick supporting them. 
“ But,” he observed, when he had completed the operation, “ it 
is one of the accidents of your profession. All the same, Jim,” 
he added, “ as you say, the thing is an infernal sell for you, and 
a great disappointment to me. Five years in India, and now 
ordered off again at a moment’s notice to a hole like Malta — 
when you have scarcely been on leave a month — yes — it is 
certainly what you call a ‘sell.’” 

His nephew laughed. “ Distinctly,” he replied; “but, after all, 
it’s part of the business — and I don’t suppose they will keep us 
very long at Malta.” 

“ I should have been very glad to have had you here till after 
Christmas,” said Mr. Cuthbert. “ What with the shooting and 
hunting you would probably not have found it too dull, and — 
well, I should have been glad of your company during the winter 
evenings.” He spoke hesitatingly. Indeed, the latter part of 
his remark was delivered almost brusquely. 

Jim Sinclair glanced at him. “ I thought you liked being 
alone ? ” he said. 

“Of course,” returned Mr. Cuthbert hastily; “so I do! 
Meglio solo che maV accomftagnato, the Italians say; and I have 
long ago discovered that they are certainly right.” 

“ Don’t understand Italian,” said his nephew briefly. 

Anthony Cuthbert laughed. “ You will find a little acquaint- 
ance with the language useful in Malta,” he said drily. “ I 
suppose,” he continued after a pause, “that you have been 
brought up to think of me as an eccentric recluse. It’s not 

5 


6 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


altogether my fault, Jim, if you and I have not seen as much of 
one another as we might have done. Circumstances have been 
to blame — and the War Office.” 

“ I never thought you wanted to see much of me, Uncle 
Anthony,” said Jim Sinclair, with a smile. 

“I didn’t,” replied Mr. Cuthbert frankly; “not when you 
were a child. I detest children. Moreover, your father, when 
he was alive, did not consider that I should be a good companion 
for you; and when you were one-and-twenty you went out to 
India with your regiment. But now you are not a boy any 
longer.” 

“ I’ve often wondered — ” began James Sinclair, and then he 
stopped abruptly. 

“Why I never married again?” supplemented Mr. Cuthbert. 

“ Well — yes ! ” 

“ Ah ! there again — Meglio solo che maV accompagnato. You 
don’t understand the proverb. I hope you never will have cause 
to feel its truth. Do you know what they say about me in these 
parts, Jim ? ” he added. 

His nephew shook his head. “How should I?” he replied. 
“ I have not been at Cuthbertsheugh for six years.” 

Anthony Cuthbert smiled a cynical smile. “ They say I keep 
a wife and family — some people insist that it is only a lady and 
family — abroad.” 

Captain Sinclair glanced at him quickly. “ Yes ? ” he said 
inquiringly. 

“ It would be very awkward for you if it happened to be true — 
the wife, I mean,” observed Mr. Cuthbert somewhat incoherently. 

Jim’s face flushed a little. “ I don’t see that it would be any 
business of mine,” he said. 

The other looked at him keenly ; then he smiled approvingly. 

“ My dear Jim,” he remarked, “ if people only occupied them- 
selves with their own business, they would be — well, about here 
they would be very idle. As it is, they have occupied them- 
selves with mine. I observe that you do not ask me if the story 
is true.” 

“No, Uncle Anthony, I don’t. As I said before, it is no 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


1 


business of mine. It appears to me that any little arrangements 
you may have across the Channel ” 

Anthony Cuthbert stared at him for a moment, and then he 
burst out laughing. “ Upon my word, Jim,” he exclaimed, “ you 
have risen in my estimation. If you had declared that you 
couldn’t and wouldn’t credit anything of the kind about your 
uncle, I should have put you down as either a humbug or an ass 
—probably as both. Well, as a matter of fact the whole thing is 
nonsense. I don’t keep a second establishment, legal or other- 
wise ; but it amuses my Northumbrian neighbours to think that 
I do ; and it is a source of constant mental excitement to my 
sister Jane. When she looks at me and sighs heavily, I know 
she is thinking of the second establishment.” 

“ But don’t you sometimes feel lonely here at Cuthberts- 
heugh ? ” asked his nephew. 

“ Sometimes — yes. But I love the place, except in spring. 
After Christmas, as you know, I go to the South ; to the Riviera 
and Italy, and very often much further afield. Had it not been 
for this sudden order to proceed to Malta, you might have 
remained here and hunted three days a week through January 
and February. I want you to look upon the place as your 
home. In all probability, if you behave yourself decently, 
Cuthbertsheugh will be yours some day. But, when that day 
comes, you will have to take your mother’s name. Nobody but 
a Cuthbert must own Cuthbertsheugh.” 

Anthony Cuthbert’s glance wandered over the landscape before 
them as he spoke. He had only told the truth when he said 
that he loved Cuthbertsheugh. He loved every acre of his 
Northumbrian possessions, and of the wild, strong Border country 
in which they lay. It was strange, perhaps, that a man of his 
tastes should be able to feel an almost passionate affection for 
scenes so different from the voluptuous southern lands whither 
he had been accustomed to resort for quite half the year. It 
was not to be wondered at if Anthony Cuthbert were something 
of an enigma to his neighbours. There was a general impres- 
sion that something must be radically amiss with a man who, 
possessing lands and a considerable income in his own country, 


8 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


should elect to spend so large a portion of his time among 
foreigners. Had it not been for the acknowledged fact that the 
owner of Cuthbertsheugh could handle a gun or a salmon-rod, 
and could ride to hounds with the best of his neighbours, he 
would doubtless have been looked upon as too refined and intel- 
lectual to be a worthy representative of the generations of 
Cuthberts who had formerly made Cuthbertsheugh famous in 
the sporting annals of the North Country. As it was, however, 
Anthony Cuthbert’s county neighbours of his own sex regarded 
him as a “ crank,” who had nevertheless many redeeming points 
about him. It was chiefly their wives who whispered together 
of the French mistress, the illegitimate progeny, and the scandal 
which would inevitably come to light whenever Mr. Cuthbert 
should be gathered to his fathers. 

It must be confessed that Anthony Cuthbert had not always 
troubled himself as to whether or not he might be offending 
local prejudices. It was perfectly well known that he was not 
always alone at- Cuthbertsheugh, and his shooting parties were 
not the only gatherings which took place within its walls. In 
the early autumn especially, the railway employes on the branch 
line running between Alnwick and the comparatively little-known 
country under the Cheviots were occasionally disturbed in their 
minds by passengers conversing in unknown tongues, whose 
palpably un-British luggage was labelled for the roadside station 
from which Cuthbertsheugh was some three miles distant. Some- 
how or other, it was invariably known when Cuthbertsheugh 
happened to be, as it was contemptuously described, full of 
foreigners. There was, nevertheless, keen curiosity on the part 
of the neighbourhood to see what manner of men and women 
these foreigners might be. Anthony Cuthbert always noticed, 
with a quiet smile of amusement, that he received more visits 
on such occasions than at any other period. Mr. Cuthbert 
was, however, invariably “ not at home,” and the callers would 
drive away down the lime avenue with looks of pregnant meaning 
on their faces. 

When all was said and done, the neighbours were not entirely 
in the wrong. Anthony Cuthbert was, and always had been 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


9 


from his youth upward, something of a Bohemian at heart. He 
was, moreover, entirely cosmopolitan both by nature and habit. 
A talent for acquiring other languages than his own had broken 
down for him the greater number of those mental and moral 
barriers with which the average Englishman surrounds himself. 
As he himself was fully aware, he was a man of diverse lives ; 
and his nature permitted him to lead each of these lives with 
satisfactory consistency, according to the circumstances in which 
he might find himself placed. 

It was manifest that such a character as that of the owner 
of Cuthbertsheugh must present altogether unsatisfactory pecu- 
liarities to his Northumbrian neighbours. The consciousness 
that this was the case — the knowledge that he was regarded as 
an abnormal individual — probably made Anthony Cuthbert show 
to less advantage among his neighbours in the county than he 
would otherwise have done. On such occasions as one of his 
shooting parties, or when the hounds met at Cuthbertsheugh, 
Mr. Cuthbert would show himself in his role of a Northumbrian 
county magnate. His guests would then say to one another 
that it was deplorable to think that a man who knew so well 
how to maintain the traditions of his family should be so eccentric 
in other ways. 

It was generally reported that Anthony Cuthbert had been 
somewhat wild in his younger days; but his wildness had not 
taken those forms which were regarded as more or less natural 
to other young men of his standing in the county. He had 
neither drank nor gambled ; and, whatever his other vices 
might have been, it was presumed that he had found greater 
facilities for indulging in them across the Channel than in his 
own country. 

Mr. Cuthbert’s married life had been brief, and not particu- 
larly happy. His wife, the daughter of a Scottish peer of family 
as ancient as his own, had become a hopeless invalid a few 
months after the marriage, of which a still-born child had been 
the only result. Nobody had ever found a word to say against 
Anthony Cuthbert’s conduct as a husband during the four years 
his wife had lingered. His kindness and attention to her had 


IO 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


been unremitting; and, since the Northumbrian climate is not 
among those best adapted to the consumptive, he had taken her 
wherever the doctors had thought fit to suggest. As a matter 
of fact, the marriage had been one rather of expediency than of 
love. At the time of his father’s death Anthony Cuthbert had 
been still a bachelor, with no inclination to change his condition. 
The elder Anthony, however, feeling his time to be drawing 
near, had seriously represented to his son that it was his duty 
to marry ; since, if he should not do so, Cuthbertsheugh must 
eventually lose its proud tradition of having passed from father 
to son for more than five hundred years. To the younger 
Anthony his father’s desire seemed reasonable enough, and, 
indeed, he would have been the last to disregard the family 
traditions. Why he had not married again, therefore, was the 
more inexplicable ; and, since he could readily have found a 
score of eligible young ladies in the county, any one of whom 
would have been delighted to become the mistress of Cuth- 
bertsheugh, it was perhaps not to be wondered at if irate 
mothers whispered, with an air of offended virtue, of a foreign 
entanglement. 

“ No,” repeated Mr. Cuthbert, after a pause ; “I am sorry 
to disappoint my neighbours, but the truth is that I do not 
keep a wife hidden across the Channel ! So, at all events for 
the present, Jim, you can be easy in your mind. As to a 
mistress — ” Anthony Cuthbert paused, and looked away to 
where the red disc of the sun was just sinking behind Carter 
Fell and the purple Cheviots. 

“ Yes, Uncle Anthony ? ” said his nephew, as he paused. 

The observation was mildly interrogative, and Anthony 
Cuthbert laughed. 

“ Not even that ! ” he said ; “ not, at all events, in the 
ordinary sense of the term.” 

James Sinclair glanced at him, and his glance betrayed an 
amusement he was unable to conceal. 

“ Let us walk a little,” continued Mr. Cuthbert quietly ; 
“the air is getting frosty. Look at that pale green colour in 
the sky, above the red glow. To-morrow morning the dahlias 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


11 


will be black. What was I saying ? Ah, yes ; we were talking 
about — well, about women. Personally, I never could see the 
advantage of keeping a mistress. I shouldn’t advise you ever 
to do so. One can dispense hospitality to one’s friends and 
acquaintances without being so generous as that ! ” 

Jim Sinclair laughed. He was becoming accustomed to his 
uncle’s cynicisms; and, unlike Mr. Cuthbert’s country neigh- 
bours, he did not regard them as signs of latent depravity. 

“Too expensive a luxury for a poor man,” he observed 
laconically. 

Anthony Cuthbert nodded. “ Quite so,” he returned ; “ ex- 
pensive, and unsatisfactory. You tell me that you wonder I 
never married again, Jim,” he continued after a pause. “Per- 
haps, therefore, it would not surprise you very much to learn 
that some few years ago I was on the point of doing so. It is 
as well that you should know the story — since you are the one 
person in the world who will probably benefit by its occurrence.” 
Mr. Cuthbert spoke somewhat bitterly, and Jim Sinclair felt a 
sudden sensation of embarrassment. 

“ I am sorry, Uncle Anthony — ” he began. 

Anthony Cuthbert cut him short. “ On the contrary,” he 
said quickly, “ you ought to be glad ! Cuthbertsheugh is worth 
four thousand a year at the least, and it represents the minor 
part of my income.” 

Jim Sinclair’s face flushed. “ All the same,” he said quietly, 
“lam sorry if — if things have not turned out as you wished.” 

“As I wished,” repeated Mr. Cuthbert; “no, they certainly 
did not turn out as I wished ! However, it is no use thinking 
about that. It is quite true, Jim, some few years ago I was on 
the point of marrying again — for love. My first venture was 
hardly a love match. I did my best to believe that it was so at 
the time ; but afterwards, well — afterwards I learned the differ- 
ence. Yes. When I was nearly forty — old enough to know 
better — I fell in love with a Florentine girl twenty years younger 
than myself— twenty-one years younger, to be correct. The odd 
part of it was that I had known her family for many years, and 
had watched her growing up.” 


12 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


“ A girl of the people, perhaps ? ” hazarded his nephew. 

“By no means ! ” replied Anthony Cuthbert hastily. “ A 
girl as well born as you or I. Her family is as old as any in 
Tuscany, and that is saying a good deal.” 

“ In that case, what stood in the way ? ” asked Captain 
Sinclair ; “ difference in age, perhaps ? ” 

Anthony Cuthbert shook his head. “ No,” he answered 
drily, “ I can flatter myself that the difference in our respective 
ages was no obstacle to her returning my love. There was an- 
other difference, however, of a more serious kind.” 

“Not money, certainly ! ” 

“Religion,” said Mr. Cuthbert briefly. “At least,” he 
added, “ religion was made the excuse. But there were other 
considerations.” 

“ Of course,” observed Jim Sinclair, “ she would be a Roman 
Catholic. But that fact would hardly have made any difference 
to you, Uncle Anthony ? ” 

“ Of course not ! To me all creeds are the same. But at 
the last moment the marriage was made conditional to my be- 
coming a Catholic myself.” 

“ But if you consider all creeds to be the same, why shouldn’t 
you have become one ? ” 

“ And profess to believe in things in which I have not the 
slightest faith?” asked Anthony Cuthbert contemptuously. 
“ No, Jim, I couldn’t do that. I was prepared to subscribe to all 
the conditions demanded by the priests in the case of a ‘ mixed 
marriage,’ but I could not tie myself to any religious denomi- 
nation, Catholic, Protestant, or otherwise. Besides, the reli- 
gious difficulty was only a secondary, a very secondary matter. 
The real fact was that the family desired another alliance for the 
young lady. I was a foreigner, and supposed to be a Protestant ; 
though, as you know, I entirely decline to be labelled as belong- 
ing to any religious denomination. Moreover, I had no title. 
In a country like Italy, where titles are as thick as blackberries 
in the hedges, it is almost impossible to make people who do not 
happen to understand our English system in those matters believe 
that an Englishman may be the equal, and often the superior, 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


13 


in blood and ancient descent to dozens of his compatriots 
having handles to their names. An Italian, for instance, could 
with difficulty be made to realise that the grandson of a duke 
might only be simply Mr. So-and-So. But this difficulty, like the 
religious difficulty, would speedily have been surmounted had it 
not been for other influences at work. Indeed, it was never 
seriously advanced by the family, which was well acquainted with 
our English system in those matters.” 

“ But if the girl cared for you ? ” 

Mr. Cuthbert shrugged his shoulders. “ My dear Jim,” he 
replied, “that would be a mere detail in the eyes of her family — 
an unfortunate accident not to be taken into account. Marriages 
are 4 arranged ’ in Italy ; and Donna Laura Conti’s marriage had 
already been arranged before — well, before we either of us realised 
how things were between us.” 

“She is married, then?” asked Jim Sinclair. 

“ Very much so,” replied his uncle drily. 44 Her present 
name is the Princess del Monte. Her husband is a Roman. 
It was an affair of love at second hand.” 

Jim Sinclair looked puzzled. “At second hand?” he re- 
peated. 

“Ah, you do not understand? Well, luckily such marriages 
do not very often occur in this country ; but they are not quite 
unknown even here. Yes : Donna Laura Conti married, or 
rather was married to Prince del Monte — a man perhaps three 
years younger than myself, but certainly not more.” 

“ Was he very rich — a great catch ? ” 

“Neither the one nor the other,” answered Mr. Cuthbert. 
“There are princes — and princes in Rome. Del Monte belongs 
to the latter category. His title would, if all accounts be true, 
not bear any very searching examination into its authenticity. It 
was a papal title, bestowed upon his grandfather by Pius the 
Ninth. History does not go further than the grandfather, who, 
in point of fact, was a successful contractor in Rome, and made 
himself useful financially to the Vatican at a moment when 
that institution needed all the help it could get. Most of the 
family fortune, I imagine, went in purchasing the title. But I 


14 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


need not go into details. Everybody in Rome would tell you 
about the principe del Monte. The Romans are so fond of 
titles, that they are always ready to ignore any little irregularities 
that may have occurred in the acquisition of them.” 

“ Then, Uncle Anthony, I don’t see the object of the marri- 
age,” observed Captain Sinclair. “ I should have thought that 
the young lady’s family would have jumped at your offer, even 
if it did come a little late in the day.” 

Anthony Cuthbert hesitated. “ She was sacrificed,” he said 
presently — “sacrificed, Jim ! Of course she did not know it at 
the time. She did what the majority of Italian girls are brought 
up to do under similar circumstances. She put aside her per- 
sonal feelings and accepted the arrangement made for her by her 
parents. It is an ugly story ; but it was never a secret at any 
time to those who knew the by-paths of Florentine and Roman 
society that del Monte was the lover of the duchessa di Car- 
magnano, his future mother-in-law.” 

Jim Sinclair uttered an exclamation of disgust. 

“It was no secret,” repeated Mr. Cuthbert, “except, of 
course, to Donna Laura herself. Those domestic situations 
occur sometimes,” he added quietly. 

“ What a beast the mother must be ! ” Jim Sinclair exclaimed 
indignantly. 

“ Was,” returned Anthony Cuthbert. “ She is dead. She 
was a beautiful woman,” he continued, “ one of the most beauti- 
ful women in Italy, of her day. Del Monte had been her lover 
for years. He had some other hold over her, however, besides 
that of love. It was always supposed that the duchessa arranged 
the marriage in order to escape a very unpleasant financial ex- 
posure with which the principe del Monte threatened her unless 
she would consent to give him her daughter.” 

“You knew her well, Uncle Anthony — this duchessa, I 
mean?” asked Jim Sinclair curiously. 

“ Oh, very well ! everybody knew the duchessa di Car- 
magnano. She was a most attractive woman — and, as you may 
gather, a most unscrupulous one, especially where money was 
concerned. That is how del Monte obtained his hold over her. 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


i5 


He knew some secret of hers, — there were at one time all kinds 
of stories as to a mysterious will, which many people declared that 
she had destroyed, substituting a forged will made in her favour, 
and it is very possible that del Monte possessed evidence of her 
guilt. However this may have been, the duchess insisted on 
her daughter marrying del Monte ; and, from the moment of 
my asking the duke’s consent to my suit, which, indeed, he 
was ready to accord, she determined at all costs to put a stop 
to it.” 

“ What was her husband about ? ” asked Jim Sinclair. “ He 
must have been a poor specimen.” 

“ The duke ? He could not say very much, poor man ! He 
could hardly be expected to inform the world that he objected to 
del Monte as a son-in-law because del Monte had been his wife’s 
lover ! Moreover, the duke himself had his own little arrange- 
ments. There was usually a fresh one every few months. After 
all, it was only fair that he, also, should have his little distrac- 
tions.” 

James Sinclair laughed. “A nice establishment!” he ob- 
served. 

“ Oh, as to that,” said Mr. Cuthbert, “ there was nothing so 
very unusual about it. Donna Laura, however, was extremely 
strictly brought up. She, of course, was in perfect ignorance 
that her father and mother did not lead the most united of lives. 
Both the duchessa and her husband were very devout Catholics ; 
and the principe del Monte, as you would soon learn were you 
to spend a few weeks in the Roman world, is one of the leading 
adherents to the rapidly disappearing ‘ Black ’ party.” 

Jim Sinclair looked at his uncle with some astonishment. 
There was nothing, however, in Mr. Cuthbert’s expression of 
countenance to lead him to suppose that he had any intention of 
speaking satirically. 

“And this marriage?” he asked, after a pause. “Is the 
lady happy ? ” 

“ Happy ! ” exclaimed Anthony Cuthbert. “ Good God, no ! 
Immediately after her marriage she found out. It needed all 
the influence of the priests to restrain her from petitioning the 


i6 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


Vatican for an annulment of the marriage. In view of the 
enormous scandal such an action would have created, however, 
she consented to keep silence, and to remain under her hus- 
band’s roof. It has been merely a nominal marriage since that 
date. Her mother, too, developed an illness, from which she 
subsequently died shortly after princess del Monte had made 
the discovery; and in order to spare her the publicity of the 
affair Donna Laura made no move. She would not have cared 
about the scandal, since it was certainly none of her making. 
But she was right not to publish to the world her mother’s 
shame.” 

“ Do you ever see her now ? ” asked his nephew. 

“ I have not seen her for four years,” replied Anthony Cuth- 
bert shortly. 

Jim Sinclair made no remark. By this time the sunset glow 
was rapidly fading, and the air was becoming more and more 
crisp. 

“ We must be returning to the house,” observed Mr. Cuth- 
bert. “ A cup of tea will not be amiss ; and at six o’clock your 
Aunt Jane arrives from Alnwick. Also, there are people coming 
to dinner — very tiresome people. A clergyman for Jane, the 
Wilsons of Heiferlaw Tower, and others. By the end of dinner, 
Mr. Wilson will probably be rather drunk ; and Mrs. Wilson will 
talk about her servants. However, you must put up with it, 
Jim, as a matter of duty. By the way, of course you will treat 
what I told you about princess del Monte as confidential. I 
told you my story because you are certain to hear some non- 
sense or other concerning me, sooner or later; so it is just as 
well that you should know the truth.” 

“ Of course I shall treat it as a confidence ! ” replied Jim 
Sinclair. “ It is very good of you to have given me your confi- 
dence. There is only one thing I don’t understand,” he added, 
“ and that is, why the lady does not get a divorce, especially now 
the mother is dead, and marry you. Probably the husband is a 
bad lot, and she could get a divorce on other grounds than the 
original scandal.” 

Anthony Cuthbert shook his head. “ You forget,” he said, 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


i7 


“ that Donna Laura is a Catholic. There is no divorce in Italy ; 
and if she were divorced in another country, she could not, 
according to the law of her Church, marry me or anybody else 
during del Monte’s lifetime. If she did, she would be considered 
as merely my mistress, not my wife. That, of course, is an 
absurdity of the priests ; but even in Italy such an absurdity as 
the prohibition of divorce, and of divorced persons from marry- 
ing again, will not be tolerated much longer. At present the 
upper classes support the priests on the subject — oh, not from 
any religious scruples, but simply because it would be extremely 
inconvenient to alter the law.” 

“ Why so ? ” asked Jim Sinclair. 

Anthony Cuthbert laughed. “ Because,” he replied, “ things 
work very well out there as they are. Men do not always want 
to marry their mistresses; and women do not always want to 
marry their lovers. You can understand that, in a society in 
which it is quite recognised that both husbands and wives, pro- 
vided they conduct their arrangements decorously, can enjoy 
their ‘ friendships,’ there is no urgent necessity for an alteration 
which might produce the most annoying complications.” 


CHAPTER III 


I T was late when Jim Sinclair finally retired to his room that 
night. The dinner-party had proved to be much as Mr. 
Cuthbert had prophesied, at least so far as the conversation of 
the guests was concerned. Miss Cuthbert, seated at the bottom 
of the table, had played her part as hostess with stiff, old-fashioned 
propriety, addressing herself chiefly to the rector of Lowick, a 
village some three miles from Cuthbertsheugh nestling beside 
the banks of the Till, to whom she discoursed alternately on the 
duties of the laity and the deplorable increase of Romanising 
tendencies in the Established Church. Mr. Wilson, who had 
taken her in to dinner, had passed through three distinct and 
successive stages in the course of the evening. He had arrived 
from Heiferlaw Tower somewhat shy, and, therefore, inclined to 
be bumptious in order to conceal his shyness. As dinner pro- 
ceeded, and his glass had needed constant replenishing with 
champagne, he became hilarious, and unnecessarily familiar. 
Finally, he had lapsed into sulkiness, his few observations being 
characterised by a decided thickness of utterance. 

At the opposite end of the table Mrs. Wilson had lamented 
the shortcomings of servants generally, and her own in particular, 
pausing abruptly when a footman happened to hand her a dish, 
or change her plate. 

Jim Sinclair had glanced now and again at his uncle, and had 
been secretly amused at his polite attempts at sympathy with the 
domestic troubles of the lady of Heiferlaw Tower. He suspected, 
indeed, that Mr. Cuthbert was quietly engaged in drawing his 
neighbour out; for every now and then a faint and somewhat 
satirical smile would play over Anthony’s features as he listened 
to her complaints. 

Nothing, however, could exceed the high-bred courtesy of his 

18 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


*9 


manner, nor his charm as a host. There was something, perhaps, 
not entirely English about it— a courteousness, and at the same time 
a graceful ease which, had Mr. Cuthbert been an old man, might 
have been acquired during a youth spent in foreign courts. It 
was precisely this manner which caused Anthony Cuthbert to be 
regarded with suspicion by the majority of his country neighbours. 
It perplexed them, and they had a vague but entirely erroneous 
idea that it was assumed with the special object of doing so. 

On the ladies leaving the dining-room, Mr. Cuthbert so far 
forgot the usages of English society as to turn towards Mrs. 
Wilson as though to escort her back to the drawing-room in the 
Continental fashion. There was an embarrassing pause, during 
which Mrs. Wilson looked as if she had been made the object of 
a sudden and indecent assault. 

Anthony smiled, and then he moved quickly towards the door, 
which, however, his nephew was already holding open. 

“ Jim,” he said in an undertone, when the door had closed on 
Miss Cuthbert and the ladies of the party, “ as you value your 
reputation, never travel alone in a railway carriage with Mrs. 
Wilson. If you offered to close the window, you might find 
yourself indicted for a felony.” 

When the men at length returned to the drawing-room, their 
entrance had seemed to be inopportune. As they entered, Mrs. 
Wilson’s voice was re-echoing down the long apartment. 

“You see,” she was saying, “ we had the painters in the house 
while we were in London last winter, and I only found her out 
the other day — just in time, you know. A week after I got rid of 
her, the shameless thing had a — Oh, here come the gentlemen 
already ! ” 

“Scandal?” asked Mr. Cuthbert, smiling, approaching the 
group. “ I fear we have joined you too soon, Mrs. Wilson.” 

Mrs. Wilson’s florid complexion grew redder. “ Our cook,’ 
she said hastily ; “ she was quite a good cook.” 

“ Yes ? How very thoughtless of the painter ! No, by the 
way, perhaps it was not so thoughtless of him. Good cooks are 
so difficult to find. I should get her back as soon as you can, 
otherwise perhaps the painter will marry her ! ” 


20 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


“ Anthony ! ” exclaimed Miss Cuthbert severely, “how can you 
be so flippant ! ” 

“ But, my dear Jane,” returned Anthony Cuthbert gravely, “ I 
assure you I am not flippant at all. I am merely sympathising 
with Mrs. Wilson. The fact of a good cook being, well, 
temporarily disabled from pursuing her duties, is not a matter 
to be treated lightly.” 

“ Lightly ! ” repeated Mrs. Wilson indignantly, “ I promise you, 
Mr. Cuthbert, I did not treat it lightly. Your sister knows how 
terribly distressed I was.” 

“Dear, dear!” Mr. Cuthbert observed commiseratingly, “was 
she so good — as a cook, I mean ? That painter evidently knew 
what he was about. But, all the same, it must be very annoying 
for you and Wilson — very annoying indeed ! ” 

At this the ladies had bridled with silent indignation. Could 
there be a better proof that the owner of Cuthbertsheugh was 
lacking in a proper sense of morality? Miss Cuthbert turned 
away with an angry sniff, and the rector of Lowick cleared his 
throat ominously. Captain Sinclair, glancing at his uncle in 
some astonishment at his audacity, detected a gleam of malicious 
amusement in his eyes, though his face wore an expression of 
grave concern. 

At length Mrs. Wilson’s carriage was announced, and this was 
a signal for the rest of the guests to take their departure. Mr. 
Cuthbert accompanied them to the entrance hall, and courteously 
insisted upon escorting the ladies to their respective vehicles. 
Immediately after the last carriage had driven away, Miss 
Cuthbert had bidden her brother and nephew a dry and dis- 
approving “ good night,” and the two were left alone together. 

Jim Sinclair threw himself into a chair and gave free rein to 
a hitherto well-restrained merriment. “How could you, Uncle 
Anthony ? ” he exclaimed. “ Didn’t you see that you were 
simply horrifying them all? And the best of it was that they 
took all you said quite seriously. You will be put down as an 
abandoned profligate if you are not more careful.” 

Mr. Cuthbert smiled. “ I am considered to be that already,” 
he replied. “It is very childish, I know,” he continued, “ but 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


21 


sometimes I cannot for the life of me help amusing myself with 
these people, and posing as a reprobate — at least, as a greater 
reprobate than, perhaps, I really am. After all, they enjoy it 
thoroughly ; for, in shaking their heads over my iniquities, they 
of course are able the better to appreciate their own superior 
virtue. To the majority of people, I believe this to be a 
thoroughly enjoyable sensation.” 

“ I wonder what made you such a cynic?” said Jim Sinclair, 
smiling. 

“ I am anything but a cynic,” replied Mr. Cuthbert. “ Cyni- 
cism is generally silly, and always superficial ; and cynics are 
either too young to have learned the lessons of life, or so old 
that they have had time to forget them. No, Jim ; I am purely 
— what shall I say ? — detached, that is all. I like others to enjoy 
themselves, even if it be occasionally at my expense. I should 
not be surprised if, in course of time, I and not the painter were 
held responsible for the domestic scandal at Heiferlaw Tower ! 
Will you ring the bell ? The servants can put the lights out here, 
and we will go to the billiard-room — that is to say, if you feel 
inclined for a short game before going to bed.” 

Mr. Cuthbert did not play so good a game as usual, and his 
nephew won a fairly easy victory. “ I am off it to-night,” he 
said, replacing his cue in the rack, “ and you have played better 
than usual. Dear, dear ! to think of the games we might have 
had on winter evenings ! Damn the War Office ! ” 

“ By all means ! ” observed Captain Sinclair cordially. “ But 
I don’t suppose you will remain at Cuthbertsheugh all the winter. 
You will go to Italy, perhaps, after Christmas, when you have had 
your shooting parties. If you do that, why not come on to Malta ? ” 

Anthony Cuthbert shook his head. “ It is four years since I 
have been in Italy,” he said quickly ; “ and I should not care to 
go there again unless I went to Rome.” 

“ Then why not go to Rome, and then to Naples, and so to 
Malta ? Nothing could be simpler.” 

“ On the contrary,” returned Mr. Cuthbert, “nothing could 
be more complicated. I have no intention of going to Rome 
again, unless ” 


22 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


“ Unless what ? ” asked his nephew, as he paused. 

“ Unless — well, unless something should happen which is not 
the least likely to happen.” 

His voice and manner were not encouraging to further ques- 
tions, as Jim Sinclair had the tact to perceive. 

“ It is more than probable that I shall not move from Cuth- 
bertsheugh,” he continued, “ at any rate until the early spring, 
when, after all, there are worse places than London. One can 
see one’s friends more comfortably than in the season, and one 
can get to Paris any day in time for the theatres ; which is always 
a pleasant thought to dwell upon, especially after having seen a 
few English plays. Do you want to go to bed ? or will you wait 
while I smoke another cigar ? ” 

“ I am in no hurry,” replied Jim, helping himself as he spoke 
to a whisky and soda. 

Anthony Cuthbert pushed an open box of cigars towards his 
nephew, and then drew an arm-chair closer to the fire. “ Thank 
God those people have gone ! ” he said, as he lighted his cigar. 

“ Wilson was drunk, but not so drunk as he usually is when he 
dines here. Jane was intolerable. She always is intolerable 
when she has a parson near her. Not but what she is a good 
sort really. She only lacks completion.” 

“ Completion ? ” 

“ Yes ; it is too late now, so she has taken to religion. They 
mostly do. How sensible it is of Catholic communities to pro- 
vide safety-valves for their unmarried women in the shape of 
convents ! Not that a convent would suit your aunt Jane,” added 
Mr. Cuthbert, chuckling. “ Do you know, Jim, she made me a 
scene once in a Roman Catholic church. It was at the Brompton 
Oratory, where I had taken her to hear the music at the high 
mass. Just before the elevation of the Host she rose from her 
seat and exclaimed in a horror-stricken voice, ‘ Now they’re going 
to do it.’ To ‘ do it,’ if you please ! — and then she stalked outf 
of the church. Fortunately we were in the free seats, near the 
door. Jane had declared that nothing would induce her to pay 
a shilling which would go towards the propagation of the Roman 
schism. Odd creatures, women, especially when incomplete ! ” 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


23 


Jim Sinclair blew a cloud of smoke into the air. 

“ I have merely a passing acquaintance with them,” he observed. 

Mr. Cuthbert smiled. “ Unofficial ? ” he asked drily. 

“ H’m,” returned Captain Sinclair. “ Scarcely that, Uncle 
Anthony. I should rather say, purely official.” 

“ Unless a man can get the right woman,” remarked Mr. 
Cuthbert thoughtfully, “ what you are pleased to call passing 
acquaintances — I admire the subtle delicacy of your language, 
Jim — are no doubt more satisfactory. I thought so too, when 
I was your age — no, I was younger than you when I was a 
bachelor. At my time of life one looks on at — at ” 

“ At other people making fools of themselves, I suppose you 
mean,” supplemented Jim, as he hesitated. 

“ Oh, damn it all, no ! ” exclaimed Anthony Cuthbert impa- 
tiently. “ At whatever you please to call it, but not necessarily 
that. At natural history, if you like. I will not be outdone in 
delicacy of language.” 

There was a silence for some minutes after Mr. Cuthbert’s last 
remark, and both men puffed meditatively at their cigars. 

“ In a few years’ time you will have to make official acquaint- 
ance with women — or with woman, rather,” said Anthony Cuth- 
bert presently. “ You will have to find a wife, Jim. Under the 
circumstances, the task will certainly not be a hard one. The 
only difficulty will be to make a good choice among the candi- 
dates who will be offered, or who will offer themselves. As I 
told you this afternoon, you will step into my shoes at my death ; 
and you will have to take my name. Your cigar has gone out. 
Light up another one ; for of all abominable things a re-lighted 
cigar is the worst.” 

Jim Sinclair flung the offending stump into the fire. “ I wish 
you wouldn’t talk of my stepping into your shoes,” he said 
quickly. “ It’s absurd. You are as young a man as I am.” 

“Except for the trifle of a score or so of years,” returned 
Anthony Cuthbert. 

“ Bother the years ! I mean, you are as strong and as active 

as young, in short — as I am. A man is said to be just as old 

as he feels ; and years have nothing to do with it.” 


24 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


“ Well,” replied Mr. Cuthbert slowly, “ granted that it is so, 
what then ? ” 

“ What then ? Why, as I say, it’s absurd. I call you ‘ Uncle ’ 
Anthony occasionally — very occasionally ; but every time I do 
so the absurdity of the thing strikes me. What never does strike 
me is the difference in our ages. It did, of course, when I was 
a boy ; but now I find that from thirty to, well, let us say fifty- 
five, all men who happen to be sound are more or less of the 
same age.” 

“ It is a charming theory,” observed Mr. Cuthbert, “ and all 
the more so because I happen to be nearly fifty, and I have 
every reason to suppose that I am still sound.” 

“ If the difference does not strike me,” persisted his nephew, 
“ why should it strike other people ? Besides, it didn’t ” — and 
here he stopped abruptly. 

“ No : it didn’t — twelve years ago,” said Mr. Cuthbert quietly. 

“ What a rotten country Italy must be to live in ! ” observed 
Jim Sinclair with sudden inconsequence. 

“ I have not found it so myself,” Mr. Cuthbert replied with 
a smile. “ But,” he continued drily, “ I believe you would 
find many Italians to agree with you. The emigration is very 
large.” 

Captain Sinclair laughed. “ I was thinking of what you told 
me about people not being allowed to be divorced,” he said. 

Mr. Cuthbert frowned. “ It is useless to go into that subject, 
Jim,” he replied. “ I know what is in your mind, but you do 
not understand. I should be the last person to wish a woman 
to place herself in a false position for my sake. Besides, that 
incident is closed.” 

“Do you mind talking of it, Uncle Anthony?” 

“To you — no. If I mentioned the matter to you, I did so 
because — well, you will know the reason some day. By the way, 
supposing you were to drop ‘uncle-ing’ me? You confessed 
just now that you only put it in occasionally. At any rate when 
we are alone I think the formality might be dispensed with.” 

“You see,” said Jim reflectively, “the husband — prince 
what’s-his-name — might die.” 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


25 


“ So might I ! ” returned Mr. Cuthbert. “ No, my dear Jim, 
the dream is over so far as I am concerned. It belongs to the 
‘ might have beens ’ of elderly life. You are still in the ‘ might 
be ’ stage. The gradual recognition of the necessity to employ 
the past tense is one of the most disagreeable things connected 
with middle age. All the same, men — and women, too, for that 
matter — who, like myself, lead a lonely life, are apt to place their 
‘ might have beens ’ in a secret shrine, and clothe them with the 
garments of reality. Very futile, no doubt, and certainly not 
strong-minded, but a harmless process enough.” 

Jim Sinclair was silent. Anthony Cuthbert spoke in a half- 
jesting way, with the expression partly humorous and partly 
cynical on his face which his nephew had learned to know well, 
and which he could remember as having attracted him when a 
boy to the uncle who, as he had vaguely gathered from remarks 
he had occasionally overheard, was not regarded as an altogether 
desirable companion for young people. No doubt this element 
of mystery surrounding his mother’s only surviving brother had 
exercised a certain glamour over Jim’s youthful mind. He had 
been by no means sure, when at intervals all too rare he had 
been taken to Cuthbertsheugh on a visit, that his Uncle Anthony 
was not a very wicked man ; and he certainly preserved a vivid 
recollection of hearing his father observe that it would only be 
thanks to the supreme mercy of God if the owner of that delight- 
ful place where there were ponies to ride, rabbits to shoot, and 
fish to be caught, escaped the eternal flames which all orthodox 
folk of those days delighted to believe would be meted out to 
those differing from them on matters of faith. 

Notwithstanding these baleful prognostications as to his 
uncle’s future state, Jim had always cherished particularly pleas- 
ing recollections of hours passed in his society at Cuthberts- 
heugh ; of being initiated by him into the methods of successfully 
stalking fat and well-to-do rabbits feeding outside the coverts on 
summer evenings ; and of being taught to cast his fly dexterously 
across a pool so as the current would take it over some spot 
where a sea-trout, or possibly even a grilse, would be likely to lie. 
Many a time the two had stolen out together like schoolboys, 


26 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


enjoying all the excitement of being out of bounds, and Jim 
could remember puzzling himself as to how it came about that 
his companion in these excursions, who displayed so lively an 
interest in things such as fishing-flies and wasp’s nests, could 
be one and the same individual as the uncle over whom his 
parent shook his head and murmured mysterious hints of dark 
doings in the past and unutterable things to come. 

And now, after five years spent in India whither he had gone 
immediately on joining his regiment, Jim Sinclair had returned 
once more to Cuthbertsheugh to find that time had not effaced 
his early impressions. If anything, the sense of comradeship 
with its owner had become both easier and more natural, since 
there was no longer the feeling that his uncle might only be 
condescending to associate with him in his pursuits out of kind- 
ness. In some inexplicable way, Anthony Cuthbert seemed to 
have stood still in life, and he, Jim, to have grown up to him. 

Together with his youth, his good looks, and his equally good 
health, Jim Sinclair was possessed of a gaiety of disposition and 
a frankness of manner that was singularly attractive, while there 
was a certain simplicity about him of that quality which proceeds 
not from lack of brains, but from goodness of heart. 

It was no wonder, perhaps, that Anthony Cuthbert, on find- 
ing the boy he had taken a fancy to years ago developed into a 
man who had gained rather than lost in the engaging attributes 
of his boyhood, should have welcomed his return as something 
that was to bring a fresh and abiding interest into a life which 
was gradually becoming a very lonely one. Mr. Cuthbert sat 
silently looking into the red chasms in the great blocks of 
Northumbrian coal which were burning fiercely in the spacious 
fireplace. “I was right,” he said presently, “and to-morrow 
morning all my poor dahlias will be black, and the garden will 
be a scene of desolation. Look at the fire, Jim — it means 
frost, and a hard one.” 

Jim Sinclair rose and stretched his long limbs. “ All the 
better,” he replied. “ It will bring the wild ducks in from the 
sea. Let us go down the river to-morrow with our guns and 
a couple of dogs.” 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


27 


Anthony Cuthbert smiled. “ We will,” he said. “ It is a long 
time now since I have prowled about the Till after wild-fowl on 
a frosty day. We shall get some snipe too, and other things. 
A mixed bag all walked for — far better sport than your rotten 
pheasants. Not but what I like pheasants too, when they come 
high. Damn it all, Jim, it is too bad that you have to go away 
again just as the best of the season up here is coming on ! 
Upon my word, when you have done this turn of foreign service, 
I don’t see why you shouldn’t send in your papers and chuck 
the soldiering. You will have plenty to do here, learning all 
the ins and outs of the property, and fitting yourself to play the 
county magnate when I have to hand over the reins. Besides, 
I can’t spare you, Jim, I can’t indeed! unless, of course, your 
heart is set upon soldiering. I shouldn’t like to stand between 
a man and his profession — but you might think it over, you 
know. Thinking it over won’t commit you to anything. After 
all, you could join the militia, and do your soldiering in Aln- 
wick park. Very pleasant in July — Alnwick — much nicer than 
Malta; and good trout, too, in the Alne, especially away up 
in the park near Hulne Abbey. The duke always gives the 
officers leave to fish. Lord ! it’s getting on for twenty years 
since I threw a fly in the Alne.” 

Anthony Cuthbert spoke rapidly, and it seemed as though 
he were anxious that his nephew should have time to make 
any reply to his suggestion; for he rose from his chair, and 
going to one of the windows, drew apart the curtains and opened 
the shutters. 

“ Freezing like blazes ! ” he said, careless of metaphor, and 
threw open the window, letting the keen northern air into 
the room. “Ah!” he exclaimed suddenly, “come here and 
look at the Northern Lights. There is a special show for your 
benefit.” 

Jim went to the window and leaned out of it. From the 
north-eastern horizon broad streams of light were shooting up 
into the centre of the heavens, like gigantic fountains of fire, 
now rose-colour, now brilliant white, paling the stars glittering 
in the frosty atmosphere. The outline of the Cheviots looked 


28 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


black and forbidding under the glow which now and again 
illumined the entire sky ; while the intense stillness of the night 
seemed as though it surely ought to be broken by the crackling 
of the flames from the fire-fountains playing in solemn silence 
as the electric rays flashed ever upwards, and then fell again 
as if urged by some powerful yet invisible force. 

“ Our people here call the aurora borealis ‘ Derwentwater’s 
Lights,’ ” said Anthony Cuthbert ; “ for there was a magnificent 
display of it in Northumberland on the night of the ill-fated 
earl’s execution on Tower Green. It is strange how traditions 
concerning him still linger in this country, and how his per- 
sonality is yet living. After all, he was a great gentleman, and 
he met his death in a great cause.” 

They watched until the fountains of flame died down for 
the last time into darkness, and only the pale light of the 
countless stars gleamed from the steel-blue sky above Cuthberts- 
heugh. 

“It is nearly one o’clock,” Anthony Cuthbert said, as he 
closed the window, “and I should suggest bed. I am afraid, 
Jim, that your frost will not last. Derwentwater’s Lights generally 
precede a north-easterly gale and very unsettled weather. All 
the same, we will go after the duck to-morrow. I shall be glad 
of the opportunity of trying a new retriever I bought the other 
day from a man at Otterburn.” 


CHAPTER IV 


I F his nephew slept the sleep of heedless youth that night, 
it was far otherwise with Anthony Cuthbert. Instead of 
accompanying Jim up the broad oaken staircase on which por- 
traits of dead and gone Cuthberts and their wives looked down 
from the Jacobean panelling that formed the decoration of the 
central and most modern portion of the house at Cuthbertsheugh, 
he betook himself to his own study — a square room opening off 
the library, chiefly remarkable for the elaborate carving of its 
lofty chimney-piece and the frieze surmounting its panelled walls. 
A man’s individuality, if not his character, may, it has been said, 
be more or less suggested by his own particular room almost as 
much as by the company he elects to keep. In this case, a glance 
round Mr. Cuthbert’s study revealed the fact that its owner must 
be possessed of artistic tastes, for the formation of which Italian 
and Grecian culture had been primarily responsible, and that he 
must also have been possessed of the means to enable him to 
gratify them. 

The lower portion of the walls were lined with well- filled 
book-cases, while here and there beautiful specimens of Italian 
cabinets of the cinquecento and seicento, bronzes, and a superb 
replica of the Meleager of the Vatican, showed that Anthony 
Cuthbert did not derive satisfaction from books alone. 

When, as not infrequently happened, would-be critics objected 
to the presence of similar objects in a Border stronghold such as 
Cuthbertsheugh, and pointed out that they were more suitable to 
a Florentine or Roman palazzo than to a Northumbrian country- 
house, Mr. Cuthbert would quietly call their attention to the rich 
carvings of the frieze and the chimney-piece, and to the ornate 
stucco-work of the ceiling, reminding them that these had been 
executed in the sixteenth century, from Italian designs, by that 

39 


3 ° 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


band of Florentine artists which apparently must have travelled 
through England and a part of Scotland, bringing with it to our 
barbarous latitudes the civilising influences of the Renascimento ; 
and that Cuthbertsheugh was only one among several houses in 
the North Country in which their work was to be found. 

What did, perhaps, strike an incongruous note was the pre- 
sence of various implements of sport, such as salmon-rods, guns, 
and a variety of fishing-tackle, dog-collars, leashes, and hunting- 
whips which, although Meleager would have regarded them with 
sympathy, were scarcely in keeping with the rest of the furniture. 

There could be no doubt that the advent of Jim Sinclair had 
been the cause of these implements having been lately called into 
requirement more often than had been the case for many a long 
day ; and even now Anthony Cuthbert found himself almost un- 
consciously opening a rack containing his guns, and taking from 
it a pair of hammerless weapons which he proceeded to examine, 
glancing down the inside of the barrels to see that no speck of 
rust was there. He was positively looking forward to walking 
down the river after breakfast the next morning with Jim as a 
companion. It was certainly strange, he thought, how the boy 
had succeeded in winning his affection. To be sure, he had 
always liked him as a lad for his manly, straightforward manner, 
and good looks ; as well as for the entire absence in him of a 
kind of narrow provincialism which, together with the typical 
north-country Puritanism from which his parents had been 
affected, and which was particularly rampant in his aunt Jane, at 
the present moment disembarrassed of her prim false front and 
of four as unmistakable false front teeth, sleeping immediately 
overhead, had been a perpetual source of mingled irritation and 
amusement to him, Anthony Cuthbert, ever since he had left 
Cuthbertsheugh for a private school. 

Between the Honourable and Reverend James Sinclair, Jim’s 
father, and his brother-in-law there had always existed a mutual 
antipathy based, as are most antipathies, on a complete lack of 
mutual understanding. Mr. Sinclair regarded Anthony as not 
only an undoubted heathen, but also as in all probability a 
profligat^ ; while Anthony Cuthbert on his side looked upon the 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


3 1 


honourable and reverend gentleman as probably a hypocrite, and, 
what was far more unendurable, a narrow-minded and ignorant 
bore. He had been considerably disgusted when his youngest 
and favourite sister chose to refuse a far more desirable offer from 
a personal friend of his in order to marry a man who lay under 
the double disadvantage of being at once a younger son and a 
parson. 

The marriage had not proved a happy one. It was true that 
Mr. Sinclair had none of the vices unbecoming to a clergyman 
— probably, as Anthony Cuthbert used to declare, he was 
altogether of too petty a character to be vicious on anything but 
a very small scale. Nevertheless, Mr. Sinclair had his vices ; and 
they were of that quality which are sometimes apt to create almost 
as much unhappiness in the family circle as more reprehensible 
ones. He had been a domestic tyrant — a striking example of the 
type described by the Germans as strasse Engel, haus Teufel. 

Austerely religious according to his conception of religion, 
a rigid Sabbatarian holding the narrowest of Calvinistic views, 
he could nevertheless make himself popular enough with his 
parishioners, to whom his evangelical orthodoxy and violent 
attitude towards anything savouring of papistry were satisfac- 
torily stimulating ; while his neighbours in the county voted him 
a good fellow enough so long as he could be kept away from 
subjects directly concerning his profession. It was at home 
that Mr. Sinclair successfully played the counterpart of the Deity, 
and imitated the petty vindictiveness and pitiful humanity he 
unconsciously, and doubtless quite sincerely, attributed to Him 
in his weekly discourses from the pulpit. 

Inordinately selfish, vain, and possessing an extremely irrit- 
able temper, the reverend gentleman led his delicate wife a 
veritable dog’s life ; and, except for the pleasure of being with 
his mother, to whom he was devotedly attached, his only son, 
Jim, was never so happy as when he was away from the paternal 
roof, preferring the occasional canings he received at school to 
the gloomy atmosphere of his home and the incessant scoldings 
and unreasonable punishments inflicted on him by his father, 
who was always careful to accompany the same with moral 


32 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


lectures of the most edifying and saintly nature. Fortunately 
for herself Mrs. Sinclair died, to her son’s inexpressible grief, while 
he was at a private tutor’s cramming for his army examination ; 
and two years afterwards, while Jim was in India with his regi- 
ment, Mr. Sinclair succumbed to a sudden attack of double 
pneumonia — a circumstance for which the boy had never pre- 
tended to express anything but the most conventional of regrets 
in his letters to his relatives. 

Anthony Cuthbert remembered those letters. They had 
caused some scandal at the time ; and poor Jim had been 
accused of filial ingratitude, and of a heartlessness which, in 
the opinion of Miss Cuthbert and other members of the Cuth- 
bert and Sinclair families, augured ill for his future. Mr. 
Cuthbert, however, had thought otherwise. He had gone to 
the Sinclair vicarage when his sister died, and he had been 
present when Jim had returned there, summoned in haste from 
his tutor’s. He had never forgotten the boy’s grief, nor his 
silent contempt for the selfish attitude displayed by his father, 
who had, with very poor success, attempted to conceal his 
resentment at the upset in his domestic life by outbursts of what 
Jim had, in a moment of weariness and indignation, charac- 
terised to his Uncle Anthony as “ damned shop.” And Anthony 
Cuthbert, knowing what his sister had been obliged to endure 
throughout her married life, and disgusted at the self-pity which 
his brother lavished on himself, as well as at the professional 
platitudes he uttered for the edification of those whose grief was 
far deeper and more sincere than his own, felt that the boy 
had summed up the situation in terms that were strictly logical, 
if somewhat bitter. 

He had repeated Jim’s observation to Lord Teesdale, Mr. 
Sinclair’s eldest brother, a sporting Yorkshire peer, who had 
nothing in common with the bereaved vicar except a father 
and mother. “ My brother James is an ass,” his lordship had 
replied briefly. “ He always was. That was why my father gave 
him one of the family livings. Your poor sister was a fool to 
marry him. I always said so, if you remember. As to the 
boy, he will do. None of his father’s cant about him, I should 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


33 


say. He takes after you Cuthberts, I suppose. Where James 
gets his crankiness from, I can’t imagine; some parson must 
have had a look in somewhere, and James must be a throw- 
back. Eh, what?” Lord Teesdale invariably ended his jerky 
remarks with these words, and was immensely popular with his 
tenants in consequence ; since in some mysterious way the phrase, 
and the quick, genial way in which it was spoken, conveyed to 
them an impression of good-fellowship. 

Anthony Cuthbert felt that he had every reason to con- 
gratulate himself that his nephew did indeed take after the 
Cuthberts rather than after his honourable and reverend father. 
Even as a lad Jim had inherited his mother’s good looks, and 
these he had retained as a young man ; while he had inherited 
also her natural gaiety and sweetness of disposition, which had 
never entirely deserted her, even when she had fallen into bad 
health — a condition of things for which Mr. Cuthbert had always 
held his brother-in-law primarily responsible. 

Replacing the guns he had taken from their rack, Anthony 
lighted a cigarette and drew an arm-chair towards the fire. Late 
as it was, he did not feel the least inclined to go to bed ; and, 
indeed, it was no unusual thing for him to sit up late into 
the small hours reading, getting through some of the business 
connected with his various properties, or dealing with his 
correspondence. 

To-night, however, he did not feel at all disposed to look 
through the pile of letters which had arrived by the afternoon 
post and lay on his writing-table awaiting his attention. 

His thoughts were occupied alike with his own past and 
with Jim’s future. Failing a son of his own to succeed to 
Cuthbertsheugh and the Yorkshire estates, which were far more 
valuable, he told himself that he could not have desired a 
more satisfactory heir than Jim would surely prove to be. After 
all, the boy was half a Cuthbert — and his mother’s blood had 
come out in him, so he had every right to the name he would 
eventually have to take. The more he saw of Jim, the easier 
it had seemed to become reconciled to the fate which had pre- 
vented his marriage with Donna Laura Conti and condemned 
3 


34 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


him to lead a solitary life, with the knowledge that no son of 
his own would come after him at Cuthbertsheugh. He had felt 
strangely nervous, when he had telegraphed to his nephew to 
come straight to Northumberland on his landing in England, 
as to whether five years would not completely have altered the 
lad of whom he had always retained pleasant and encouraging 
recollections. It was true that Jim Sinclair’s letters had always 
displayed the frank, manly tone, and not a little, too, of that 
independent, devil-may-care spirit which, possibly because it was 
so entirely foreign to anything the reverend Sinclair could have 
been expected to breed, had originally attracted Mr. Cuthbert’s 
favourable notice. Nevertheless, he had not been able to rest 
contented until he had actually seen for himself whether or not 
the expectations he had formed of the lad had been realised in 
the man. Anthony told himself that night, as he had told him- 
self every day with ever-increasing confidence since his nephew’s 
arrival, that these hopes and expectations had been realised more 
fully than he could ever have dared to anticipate. Quite un- 
known to Jim, and perhaps to a greater degree than he had 
himself recognised, he had subjected him to a prolonged series 
of tests, which had been conducted with no little subtlety, with 
the object of proving the purity of the precious metal he believed 
him still to possess. Not the least crucial of Anthony’s experi- 
ments had been the confidence he had made to Jim of his own 
shattered hopes, and the matter-of-fact way in which he had 
given him to understand that Jim would, in consequence, be his 
heir. He had been careful not to make this last announcement 
in any such formal manner as would perhaps have been natural 
in the case of an uncle acquainting a nephew of so weighty a 
determination : but, all the same, he had been equally careful 
to let him understand that he owed his good fortune to his, 
Anthony’s, own failure to secure for himself the happiness he 
had aimed at. 

Anthony Cuthbert, not without reason, prided himself on 
being no mean judge of character. His varied and somewhat 
Bohemian life had brought him into contact with all sorts and 
conditions of men and women of many nationalities, and as a 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


35 


general rule he had found his impressions of those of his fellow- 
creatures whom he took the trouble to study with attention to be 
tolerably correct. That Jim stood the tests applied to him more 
than satisfactorily had been evident. Indeed, in no single 
particular had he disappointed Anthony’s expectations. Anthony 
had been both amused and delighted at the common-sense man- 
of-the-world manner with which his nephew had dismissed the 
gossip concerning his private life — gossip which even his sister, 
Jane, accepted as the only rational explanation of her brother’s 
cosmopolitan tastes. He had been mightily tickled by Jim’s 
nonchalant observation to the effect that any little arrangements 
his uncle might have made across the Channel could be no affair 
of his ; and he had been touched by the simple disinterestedness 
the boy had displayed in endeavouring to find some way by 
which he, Anthony, could marry the woman he loved, notwith- 
standing the patent fact that such a marriage could not but be, 
in all probability, to his own future disadvantage. 

The lad had a heart of gold, Anthony Cuthbert told himselt, 
as he sat musing in front of the fire which blazed comfortably in 
the oak-panelled room and cast its flickering light on the quaint 
carved figures on the frieze and chimney-piece. The light fell, 
too, on the replica of the Meleager — a statue for which Mr. 
Cuthbert had given a larger sum than he cared to dwell upon, 
and which, since it was undoubtedly a contemporary copy of the 
original, had cost him no inconsiderable amount in persuading 
the Italian officials to allow it to leave the country as a modern 
work of art. The marble, standing out against the dark back- 
ground of panelling, glowed with a rosy flush from the firelight 
which caused the graceful athletic form to look more than usually 
alive ; while the eager, alert face, so delicate of feature and yet 
so triumphant in its manly beauty, seemed as if it must surely 
open its lips to cheer on the hound straining at the leash grasped 
in the strong, nervous hand. 

Something, perhaps, in the play of the firelight on the 
statue drew Anthony’s gaze towards it, and his glance rested 
admiringly on its beautiful face and form. Presently, a sudden 
thought seemed to strike him, for he rose from his chair, 


36 ANTHONY CUTHBERT 

and, drawing nearer to the figure, studied the head with closer 
attention. 

“Of course!” he exclaimed to himself, “how came I never 
to have thought of it before? Ever since Jim’s return I have 
been wondering who or what it is that he resembles, and here I 
have been living all the time with the Meleager, for which he 
might have sat as a model. Yes, a little difference in the nose ; 
the Greeks must have had rather irritating noses, too little 
character in them. Otherwise, that brow with the close, curly 
hair clustering upon it, the shape of the face and the way the 
head is carried, Jim might have sat for the whole thing ! The 
face has got his expression, too, open, confident — a little irresolute 
about the mouth perhaps, but none the less attractive for that. 
Where the deuce did he get it all from ? And will it be a blessing 
or a curse to him ? It wasn’t of any great use to Meleager, so 
far as I remember; and by Jove, yes! I believe the young man 
killed an uncle or two. Well, well, nephews don’t often do that 
in these days, even when they know that they will succeed to 
their uncle’s possessions. No, the devil of it is that some woman 
will get hold of him, and Heaven grant that she may be the right 
sort of woman. He has amused himself, no doubt, but I am 
pretty sure that the amusements have been purely incidental up 
to now. Curious, too, that he should have escaped in India, if 
all one hears about the women there is true. But as soon as it 
dawns on the world that he is heir to some fifteen thousand a 
year, Master Jim will have to be careful not to allow himself to 
be caught. I think it might be as well if I pledged the boy to 
secrecy as to that little arrangement between us until he returns 
from this confounded foreign service. Then, if he can be per- 
suaded to send in his papers and settle down here, it will be easy 
enough to find a wife for him. God bless me, the mothers will 
be buzzing about him like flies round a jam-pot ! ” 

The chill of a frosty dawn was creeping into the room before 
Anthony Cuthbert lighted his candle preparatory to going upstairs 
to bed. Often he had passed up that staircase and felt that the 
portraits of departed Cuthberts were gazing at him with reproach 
in their eyes that he should be the one owner of Cuthbertsheugh 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


37 


to leave no direct heir to the birthright they had handed down to 
him through the centuries ; but to-night he returned their gaze 
proudly enough. 

“ The boy will be as good as any one of you,” he said half 
aloud, “ and probably better than most, for he won’t steal any- 
body’s cattle, or raid any one’s hearth. And, after all, he is half 
a Cuthbert, and half — oh, damn it all — not a parson, but some 
former being reincarnate in this remarkably prosaic land and 
century ! ” 


CHAPTER V 


HE three weeks’ leave Jim Sinclair had been accorded 



i previous to rejoining his regiment, which had been 
stopped at Malta on its way home from India, was passing all 
too quickly. It was now the middle of October; and by the 
middle of October, which in those days was an important local 
date, owing to the Quarter Sessions being held at the neigh- 
bouring town of Alnwick during that week, tradition demanded 
that the first snows of winter should make their appearance on 
the Cheviots, and that the weather should be extremely chilly 
and disagreeable in consequence. In those days, too, the doings 
of Justice in Alnwick were inaugurated by what was known as 
the Quarter Sessions ball — a function scarcely less solemn and 
depressing than the Sessions themselves. At ten o’clock or so, 
to the funereal strains of the ancient Northumbrian battle-song 
of “ Chevy Chace,” the modern representatives of Hotspur, and 
the party gathered together for the occasion in the stately castle 
of the Percies near by entered the ballroom, after which the 
company, with a full sense of the decorum to be observed in ducal 
and magisterial presence, fell to dancing high and disposedly. 

This year, however, contrary to usual precedent, even Great 
Cheviot itself was green as in early September. After a few 
sharp white frosts at night there had been a succession of still 
autumn days. The wooded banks of Wansbeck and Coquet, of 
Tweed and Tyne, and many a smaller stream were clothed in 
glorious garments of red and gold ; and on the hillsides the 
russet-brown of the bracken flamed here and there into vivid 
yellow against the sombre background of faded heather and 
grey boulders. From the higher ground in the park which 
stretched away for a considerable distance behind the house 
at Cuthbertsheugh, the long line of rock-bound coast was clearly 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


39 


visible ; the inner and outer Fames rising ridge-like from a sea 
of almost Mediterranean blue ; Holy Island with its castle-crowned 
rock ; the grim, square keep of Bamburgh, and away to the 
right of it the desolate towers of Dunstanburgh, scene of many a 
weird legend, over which the waves fling their spray during the 
wild north-easterly gales of winter, and rush, raging like living 
creatures, up the narrow chasms in the grim cliff on which the 
castle stands sentinel over the North Sea. Still further down 
the coast, again, Coquet Island with its lighthouse gleamed 
white in the sunlight, and beyond it the walls and towers of 
Warkworth, barely showing above the woods surrounding them. 
In the nearer distance yonder heights crowned by a solitary 
tower are in the great demesne belonging to the castle of Alnwick 
— a tract of country comprising woodlands and moorland, hill and 
dale, ruined abbeys, a park unrivalled for extent and variety by 
any in England. Away to the westward wild cattle are roaming 
through the rough grass-lands of the park of Chillingham ; nearer 
at hand lies the fateful field of Flodden, while yonder high 
ground behind marks the course of Tweed, and, according 
to good Northumbrians, the wrong side of the Border. A 
wonderful country, truly, is this of the Northumbrian marches, 
in which well-nigh every mile has its own romantic history, 
every vantage-ground its castle, every valley its battle-field or 
desecrated abbey; and a Cuthbert of Cuthbertsheugh, in com- 
mon with many another descendant of its feudal lords and 
their clans, might well be pardoned for pride in being connected 
with it. 

Anthony Cuthbert, although a magistrate and a deputy- 
lieutenant, did not feel called upon to betake himself to Alnwick 
for Quarter Sessions. He had recollections — although not lively 
ones — of the ball ; and in days gone by had on various occasions 
made solemn entry thereto to the strains of “ Chevy Chace ” 
together with his ducal hosts and their guests. 

This year, at any rate, he was not going to absent himself 
from home while Jim could still be at Cuthbertsheugh. It was 
remarked by his neighbours that never for many years had 
Mr. Cuthbert appeared so frequently in the hunting-field. The 


40 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


regular hunting had not, of course, begun, but two or three days 
in the week Anthony was out “ cubbing,” and apparently en- 
joying himself heartily as the hounds drew the coverts in the 
dewy autumn mornings, and often ran from Till to Tweed, or 
eastward into the Percy country. Something of the habitual 
reserve, and the grave courtesy which prevented his fellow-squires 
from ever quite regarding him as one of themselves, seemed to be 
cast off, and it was noticed that he threw himself into the sport 
with as much keenness as he had done twenty years previously. 
On the days when there was no cub-hunting, a sufficiency of 
shooting could be enjoyed in outlying plantations, and Anthony 
only regretted that he was unable to alter the course of Nature 
and bring the leaves off the trees in time to shoot the principal 
coverts before his nephew should have to take his departure. 

Naturally enough Jim Sinclair had been received with open 
arms by the neighbours around Cuthbertsheugh, and in the 
North Country a wide and comprehensive scale is comprised 
in the term neighbourhood. He rapidly, indeed, became a 
general favourite with all classes, and Anthony Cuthbert did 
not conceal his gratification at the fact. The only person who 
appeared to view with disapproval her brother’s evident pleasure 
in bringing his nephew forward as much as possible was Miss 
Cuthbert. From the first she had treated Jim with a cold 
reserve which not all his efforts to make himself agreeable to 
her had succeeded in thawing. Mr. Cuthbert, who was certainly 
aware of his sister’s attitude and not a little provoked by it, 
nevertheless had insisted on her remaining at Cuthbertsheugh 
during Jim’s stay there. “Jane takes a long time making up 
her mind about people,” he said, a little apologetically to his 
nephew, “and if she disapproves of them she is, well, like a 
black frost. It breaks by degrees, as a rule; but one simply 
has to sit still and wait for the wind to change ! Not that she 
disapproves of you — I don’t mean that — but she is what she 
calls ‘taking your measure.’ She prides herself on never un- 
bending to a new acquaintance until she has done so. I have 
known the process to be very embarrassing to the person 
undergoing it.” 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


4i 


“ I hope it doesn’t last long,” Jim had observed resignedly. 

Anthony laughed. “ It couldn’t last long with you, my dear 
Jim,” he replied. “ After all, you must remember that up to a 
few days ago you were a comparative stranger to your aunt 
Jane; and, if I remember rightly, you weren’t the best of 
friends when you used to come here as a boy. I think I 
recollect a certain episode of an old cock being conveyed in 
the roosting state and placed under Jane’s bed, and the 
disturbance that followed in the early morning.” 

“ And you got me out of the row ! ” replied Jim. “ I always 
suspected you of having seen me smuggling that cock up the 
stairs, and of pretending to look the other way.” 

“ Well, as a matter of fact,” answered Mr. Cuthbert, chuckling, 
“ I did see you ; and I guessed that the unlucky bird was going 
under somebody’s bed. Indeed, I think I looked under my own 
that night. You see, Jim,” he continued more seriously, “I 
believe Jane is inclined to be a little jealous of you. She will 
get over it, of course, but in the meantime you must just pretend 
not to notice her severe manner.” 

“Jealous? of me!” exclaimed Jim, laughing. “Why in the 
world should she be that ? ” 

Anthony hesitated. “ Jane is an odd woman,” he said after 
a pause. “As you know, she is a good many years older than I 
am, and she loves authority. One of her peculiarities is an 
intense family pride. Cuthbertsheugh represents to her a sort 
of shrine — a Mecca; and she has never forgiven me for not 
marrying again and continuing the unbroken succession of 
Cuthberts in the direct line. She did not get on with my wife ; 
for no other reason, I believe, than that my wife had no children. 
She could neither understand her ill-health — being as strong as a 
moss-trooper herself — or pardon it ; and to the last insisted that 
she suffered from nothing but nerves. I think, until you re- 
appeared upon the scene, she was convinced that some mysterious 
entanglement abroad alone prevented me from marrying again, 
and I verily believe that she would have ultimately accepted the 
results even of a mesalliance on my part rather than that 
Cuthbertsheugh should not pass to a son of mine. Latterly 


42 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


her ideas concerning some hidden impediment to my marrying 
again, or her suspicions that I had made a marriage I could not 
openly avow during my lifetime, must have been upset by the 
knowledge that I have practically adopted you as my heir. She 
would naturally conclude that I should hardly be likely to take 
such a step had I legitimate heirs elsewhere ; while, at the same 
time, it must be a proof to her that for some reason or other I 
regard a second marriage on my part as being absolutely out of 
the question.” 

“I see,” said Jim Sinclair thoughtfully. “What I do not 
see,” he added, “is why it should be out of the question. I 
should say that Aunt Jane, from her point of view, is perfectly 
right in regarding me, as I am sure she does regard me, as an 
intruder who will spoil your family record ! ” 

Anthony Cuthbert glanced at him for a moment, a glance 
full of affection. 

“She must become reconciled to the idea,” he said a little 
abruptly, “and she will become reconciled to it, in course of 
time. It is no use our going over old ground again, Jim. I 
have been quite open with you. You know that I tried to 
marry again, and that circumstances were against me. Nothing 
now could alter those circumstances.” 

“ Yes ; something could,” replied Jim hastily. 

“ Perhaps you will tell me what ? ” Anthony Cuthbert returned, 
looking at him curiously. 

“ Well, the death of prince what’s-his-name, for instance. If 
he died the lady would be free, I suppose. Divorce and all the 
rest of it wouldn’t come in there.” 

The two were riding homeward after a run with the hounds that 
had eventually taken them many miles away from Cuthbertsheugh. 
The sun was already high, and the sharpness of the early morning 
air had given place to a warmth that was almost oppressive. Not 
a leaf stirred, and the lower ground beneath the rolling spurs 
of the Cheviots was wrapped in a golden haze. Every now 
and then the sullen croak of a hoodie-crow, the harsh cry 
of a heron lazily flapping its way towards the Till glittering 
like a silver thread as its waters caught the sunlight, the 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


43 


distant bark of collies working sheep on the moorlands 
stretching away on either side of the grassy track along which 
the horses were quietly picking their way, broke the autumn 
stillness. 

“ No,” repeated Anthony Cuthbert, “ it wouldn’t come in there. 
But,” he added, “ the contingency is so unlikely that it is not 
worth to take it into account. Besides, even if it were to happen, 
you forget that a good many years have passed since — well, since 
Donna Laura Conti, as she was then, was not afraid of the dis- 
parity in our respective ages. It does not follow that she would 
be of the same opinion now. In ten years’ time I should be an 
old man, comparatively, and she would be a woman in the prime 
of her life ; for, unlike many Italian women who are apt to grow 
old prematurely, she looks, or did look when I last saw her, 
little more than two-and-twenty, if as much. No, Jim, even 
if what you suggest were to happen, you would still be safe 
enough.” 

Jim Sinclair’s fair face suddenly flushed scarlet. 

“ Did you think I meant that ? ” he exclaimed almost angrily. 
“ I was not thinking of myself, but of you. Do you suppose 
that I want you to remain unmarried in order to secure my own 
position? No doubt Aunt Jane will think it of me; but you , I 
thought you knew me better ! ” 

Anthony Cuthbert was silent for a moment. “Well,” he 
said presently; “well, Jim, your aunt Jane flatters herself that 
she has a very shrewd knowledge of human nature ; and, after 
all, it would only be human nature if, after what has passed 
between us, you were to resent any attempt on my part to 
marry again as not playing fair.” 

“It might be human nature,” remarked Jim stolidly, “but 
I should call it a pretty low form of human nature.” 

“What? not to play fair by you? I quite agree,” said Mr. 
Cuthbert. 

“ Not at all. I mean, that I should regard it as a very low 
trick on my part to resent your doing anything you chose to 
do, should the lady — I shall never remember her name — some 
day be free to marry again. Why, do you suppose I don’t 


44 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


realise that you would never have dreamed of making me your 
heir if things had gone as you once hoped ? ” 

“ That is perfectly true,” replied Anthony Cuthbert quietly. 

“ Of course it is true ! And a jolly rotten business it would 
be if I were to assume that I was badly treated if after all you 
found circumstances had altered, and that you were in a position 
to — well, to get what you had come to regard impossible ! You 
would hate the very thought of me ; and I should despise 
myself.” 

“ Well said, Meleager ! ” exclaimed Anthony. 

Jim stared at him. “What did you say?” he asked. 

“Oh, nothing! Did I speak out loud? Steady, you silly 
idiot ! don’t pretend you never saw an old cock-grouse before, 
and you bred within sight of the Kielder Stone ! So — now we 
shall get a little shade. It was hot enough riding across that 
bit of moor. Yes ; what were you saying, Jim?” 

“ Simply that I’m not such a selfish cur as you and Aunt 
Jane seem to take me for ! ” replied Jim, his level brows con- 
tracting into a frown as he spoke. 

“You may leave me out of the question,” said Anthony 
Cuthbert, with a smile, “and as to Jane, she is only taking — 
your measure, as I told you just now. I took it long ago.” 

“ Inaccurately.” 

“ I think not. However, time will prove that. Then, Jim, 
as I understand you, you would not feel that you had been 
hardly dealt with if I were after all to marry again ? ” 

“ Why should I ? Certainly not if you were to marry Donna 
what’s-her-name. I have always wanted to tell you, Uncle 
Anthony,” Jim continued impetuously, “only somehow or other 
it has never been an easy thing to say. You see, you might 
think me ungrateful for all your kindness to me ” 

“ Rot ! ” interposed Mr. Cuthbert curtly. 

“ And that I didn’t appreciate my extraordinary good luck in 
having the possible prospect of being your heir.” 

“You weigh your words carefully, Jim,” again interrupted 
Anthony. “ I have noticed that you generally do. It is a very 
useful habit.” 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


45 


Jim gave an impatient gesture. “ I wish you wouldn’t laugh 
at me ! ” he exclaimed. “ One never knows when you are 
serious, and when you are pulling a fellow’s leg. What was 
I going to say? oh yes — well, it isn’t that, and as I told you 
the other night, I can’t somehow bring myself to think of you 
and me as uncle and nephew. It seems absurd. That being 
the case, can you wonder if I should like to treat you as — as 
I should treat a pal, and to forget everything else ? ” 

“ I don’t think I quite follow your argument,” observed Mr. 
Cuthbert, looking at him keenly. 

“ Oh, damn ! well, I’ll try to put it more plainly, though 
perhaps you will think it infernal cheek. Why shouldn’t we 
make a bargain — as between two fellows who are great pals? 
You have told me you intend to make me your heir; and I 
know perfectly well that if you do, it will be only because you 
have been disappointed of your own hopes in life.” 

“Not quite that,” interposed Anthony Cuthbert earnestly; 
“ not quite that, Jim ! a certain amount of affection enters into 
the matter — a detail you seem determined to overlook. You 
forget that your mother was my favourite sister — the one nearest 
to me in age ; and when she died, I promised her that I would 
always look after you, her only child. So much for family 
sentiment. But family sentiment is not everything — and it is 
a very dull affair unless there is genuine affection to back it 
up. I don’t think the two often go together ; for, as a rule, 
one’s relatives are infernal bores, whom one could very well 
do without in life. They have a tiresome habit of presuming 
upon their relationship to say and do disagreeable and imper- 
tinent things. No, my dear Jim, I will tell you frankly that 
if my affection for you was purely avuncular — I believe that 
to be the correct term — I should have contented myself with 
asking you to Cuthbertsheugh at discreet intervals, and with 
occasionally lending you a helping hand to pull you out of 
some scrape, into which I should have thought very little of 
you if you had not blundered sooner or later in your career.” 

“I know,” replied Jim, smiling. “That is the very reason 
why I should be a beast not to treat you as you have treated me.” 


46 ANTHONY CUTHBERT 

Anthony Cuthbert smiled too, well pleased with the 
answer. 

“ Let us hear your bargain,” he said. “ I am very well 
content that it should be based, not upon our accidental relation- 
ship, but upon a warmer and more genuine foundation.” 

“ Simply this,” returned Jim, “ that you should feel yourself 
absolutely free so far as I am concerned to take the step we 
have been talking about, should circumstances arise to make 
it desirable, and that you should never think you were bound 
by anything you have said to me, or believe that I should 
presume upon it. It would be ridiculous. I was not brought 
up to regard myself as heir to Cuthbertsheugh ; and it is a 
pure fluke that you like me as you do. You might have been 
bored to death with me as a relation to whom you felt yourself 
bound to be kind. Not that you would have seen much of 
me, if that had been the case; for I should probably never 
have come near you; nor should I now, if it hadn’t been 
because ” 

“Because — what?” asked Anthony Cuthbert quickly. 

“ I have told you,” replied Jim, colouring, “ and you said you 
were content.” 

“ Content ! ” echoed Mr. Cuthbert, and then he was silent. 
“ But there are two sides to every bargain,” he resumed pre- 
sently. “ Let us hear the other.” 

Jim Sinclair laughed a little nervously. “ In this case,” he 
said, “ it is a purely one-sided bargain, and you must take it or 
leave it.” 

“ And if I leave it?” 

“ Then we can continue the discussion some years hence. In 
the meantime I have my profession ; and though I am not a rich 
man, I have quite enough money to be independent. My mother, 
as you know, had a fair portion — and my father spent very little 
beyond the stipend he got from his living. He, too, had some- 
thing of his own as a younger son ; so I am not a pauper.” 

“That is all very well, Jim,” said Anthony Cuthbert. “I 
know your circumstances as well as you do yourself — so far at 
any rate as the amount of the capital you inherited is concerned 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


47 

— though how far it may or may not be still intact, I naturally 
cannot say.” 

Jim laughed carelessly. “ It is not much diminished,” he 
replied. “ As I said,” he added, “ I have enough to live upon, 
exclusive of my pay.” 

“ And as I say,” retorted Anthony, a little impatiently, “ that 
is all very well ; but where do I come in ? ” 

“You don’t come in — at all events until we see what the next 
few years may bring about,” replied Jim imperturbably; “that is 
to say, unless you agree to my one-sided bargain.” 

“ It strikes me,” observed Anthony, “ that you are about the 
cheekiest youngster who ever dictated terms to a benevolent 
uncle. How do you know that I shall not tell you that your so- 
called bargain is extremely ungrateful, not to say offensive ; and 
that I shall look out for some distant cousin who does not give 
himself ridiculous airs, but takes the gifts the gods are ready to 
provide for him ? ” 

“You can’t!” replied Jim. “It would not be playing the 
game. You agreed to the proposition that we were friends, not 
merely relations.” 

Anthony Cuthbert burst out laughing. “ I accept the terms,” 
he said, “since it appears you have left me no other choice! 
As to the distant cousin, he would be very distant indeed. 
The Cuthberts have not been lucky with their children during 
the last generation or so ; and, as a matter of fact, the nearest of 
kin bearing the name are knocking about somewhere in the 
Antipodes — New Zealand, I think. That is one of the reasons 
why I have need of you, my dear boy. The other reason, and the 
more important one, you must have guessed for yourself by this 
time. Don’t be afraid that I am going to be sentimental. The 
things one really feels the most keenly in one’s life one doesn’t 
talk about except once in a blue moon — sometimes not even 
then. When you came home the other day I felt that a new 
chapter in my book of life might be about to open — that I might 
no longer be under the necessity of re-reading the old pages 
which told me only of disappointed hopes in the past, and of a 
present devoid of any interests save those I forced myself to make 


48 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


in order not to lead a totally aimless existence. Can you under- 
stand— or need I say more? I hope you do understand, Jim; 
for I could hardly say more without approaching dangerously 
near to the sentimental.” 

Jim Sinclair nodded. “ I understand,” he said simply, “ or I 
think I do. That is why I cannot bear the idea that one of these 
days you might find you had a chance of — of realising all you 
once wished for, and that out of some feeling of doing an 
injustice towards me you might refuse to take it.” 

“ It is too late for any such chance to present itself,” returned 
Anthony. “One cannot put the clock back. But if it did” — 
and he paused. 

“ If it did,” said Jim, smiling, and reaching his hand out to 
him, “ you would remember our conversation of to-day ; and if 
you were sure it was a chance that ought to be taken, you would 
take it ? ” 

Anthony Cuthbert grasped his hand for a moment. “ If it 
makes your mind easier, yes,” he replied ; “ if I were persuaded 
that the step was a wise one, I would take it.” 

“ Now we have shaken hands on the bargain,” exclaimed Jim 
gaily, “ and there is no more to be said. You don’t know how 
glad I am to have got that business off my mind ! I’m such a 
duffer at putting delicate subjects properly; and when I try to 
be tactful, I generally end by saying the wrong thing.” 

Anthony glanced at him affectionately. “ I don’t agree with 
you,” was all he said in reply to his remark. “ Shall we push 
on?” he added. “ We have four or five miles to do yet — and a 
nice bit of open grass country before us — but ’ware holes ! ” 


CHAPTER VI 


W HEN Anthony Cuthbert described his sister as being an 
odd woman, he was not entirely correct. Jane Cuth- 
bert was, rather, a late survival of a type by no means uncommon 
in the north of England in the earlier half of her century, although 
more rarely met with in modern days. Indeed, Miss Cuthbert 
both despised and distrusted modernity in all its forms ; and, 
had she lived at the beginning of the twentieth century instead 
of in the latter portion of the nineteenth, she would, for the first 
and only time in her life, have found herself in sympathy with 
the individual whom she honestly regarded as Antichrist — to wit, 
the Pope. 

The late Mr. Cuthbert had outlived his wife some twenty 
years or more, and, until his death, Miss Cuthbert had ruled as 
mistress of the house at Cuthbertsheugh. It was not, therefore, 
surprising if she had, comparatively early in life, developed a 
certain love of authority, coupled with considerable jealousy of 
anybody or anything likely to interfere with her supremacy. 

To be fair upon Miss Cuthbert, she had resigned her sceptre 
at Cuthbertsheugh with a good enough grace so soon as the 
moment came when its possession was no longer her legitimate 
right. When her brother Anthony married, an event which 
occurred only a year after his father’s death, she had continued 
to live at Cuthbertsheugh and to rule the establishment as before, 
since Anthony had taken his wife abroad almost immediately 
after the marriage. It was only, therefore, when the young 
couple had returned to Cuthbertsheugh as its possessors that 
Miss Cuthbert’s reign came to an end. To do her justice, Jane 
Cuthbert would only have been pleased to see her sister-in-law 
a satisfactory mistress of the old house of which she was so 
proud. She soon came to the conclusion, however, that her 
4 49 


5 ° 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


brother had married “a feckless thing,” as she described her 
to intimate friends, who thought she had no time to look after 
anything but her own health, and left the management of her 
establishment to a housekeeper — a thing Miss Cuthbert herself 
would have scorned to do so long as power of speech and motion 
were left to her. As time went on, Miss Cuthbert’s disapproval 
of her brother’s wife became more marked. The primary reason 
for Mrs. Cuthbert’s existence was, in her sister-in-law’s eyes, to 
continue the race of Cuthberts in the direct male line : and not 
the faintest sign of anything which might ultimately develop into 
a nephew had ever shown itself. This alone was an unpardon- 
able offence ; but there were yet others. It was evident to every 
one except Miss Cuthbert, who insisted that hysteria was at 
the bottom of it, that Anthony’s wife was consumptive, and 
most people thought he was acting wisely in taking her away 
from Cuthbertsheugh before the commencement of the long 
Northumbrian winter and still more trying spring. Jane Cuth- 
bert, however, resented these precautions as being both unneces- 
sary and unworthy of the family traditions. Cuthberts, she 
declared, had been successfully bred, born, and reared in the 
Northumberland climate for at least five hundred years ; and it 
was ridiculous to suppose that they could not continue to be so. 
She forgot how many of her own brothers and sisters had failed 
to weather the bitter winds of March and April that swept up 
from the sea or down from the Cheviots over Cuthbertsheugh. 
Her brother Anthony, she averred contemptuously, would have 
done better to have taken a wife from the right side of the 
Border — though, to be sure, a Scotswoman ought not to be such 
a delicate, useless body. 

Then had come the catastrophe which most of Anthony’s 
friends had foreseen, and Mrs. Cuthbert had quietly faded out 
of a life which her sister-in-law was not altogether wrong in 
declaring to have been of no use to herself or to anybody else. 
To say that Jane Cuthbert welcomed this event would be an 
exaggeration. With all her apparent roughness of disposition 
and intolerance of anything she considered “ new-fangled,” she 
was by no means a heartless woman, and she was genuinely sorry 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


5i 


for her brother. She was sorry too, perhaps, that until his wife 
was actually dead she had never consented to admit that she was 
ever really ill — but, if this were the case, she never said so. To 
confess herself mistaken was altogether opposed to her sense of 
personal dignity. 

While regretting the sorrow which had fallen upon him, Miss 
Cuthbert was nevertheless glad that her brother was free. After 
a suitable period had elapsed he would surely marry again — and 
this time he would choose a healthy woman who would do what 
was expected of her. This had been Jane Cuthbert’s absorbing 
thought ; for before all things she was loyal to her race, and the 
thought that the immemorial boast of the Cuthberts that Cuth- 
bertsheugh had never gone except from father to son should be 
stultified and lost was intolerable to her. 

Her disappointment at finding that Anthony’s absences from 
home only became longer and more frequent after his wife’s 
death was bitter. To be sure, she again reigned supreme at 
Cuthbertsheugh — for her brother insisted that she should regard 
the house as her own, even when he was not living in it. There 
was something pathetic in the solitary woman leading her life in 
the old family house she loved so well, and existing on the 
traditions of the past while scheming as to how those traditions 
might be continued into the future. Of money there was no 
lack, and Miss Cuthbert had certainly not the added anxiety of 
having to keep up a large establishment on limited means. 
Anthony Cuthbert had never been wanting in generosity — and, 
although not to such an exaggerated degree, he shared his 
sister’s pride in Cuthbertsheugh. By his wish the place was 
kept up in the same way as it had always been — and Miss 
Cuthbert, as its virtual mistress, was a personage in the county 
— although a very lonely one. Perhaps this arrangement might 
have continued to answer satisfactorily had Jane Cuthbert been 
of a less autocratic disposition. She could never forget that her 
brother was not still the boy she had been accustomed to rule 
in her position as a sister many years older than himself. When 
Anthony did return to Cuthbertsheugh after his travels abroad, 
she never lost an opportunity of impressing upon him that it was 


52 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


his duty to marry again, and to have children to succeed to him. 
She could scarcely be inspired to guess how singularly in- 
opportune her perpetual admonitions on this subject were, nor 
the pain they caused. Another man, possibly, would have en- 
lightened his sister as to how matters had gone with him, and 
would have confided to her that he had done his best, although 
unsuccessfully, to follow her advice. 

But Anthony Cuthbert was nothing if not reserved on any 
point connected with his own feelings. He had never said a 
word concerning the girl he had hoped to make his wife; 
but he had gradually turned more and more restive under 
the irritating sting of his sister’s suggestions, and every time 
he came to Cuthbertsheugh the breach grew wider between 
the two. 

Had it not been for the fact that the girl he had wished to 
marry was a foreigner and a Catholic, Anthony would probably 
have given his sister to understand that there were unanswerable 
reasons why her entreaties that he should marry again were par- 
ticularly painful to him. He was very well aware, however, that 
she would be horrified if she knew he had actually contemplated 
such a marriage. The congratulations she would be sure to 
make him at his escape from such a fate would be, he felt con- 
vinced, more annoying to endure than her ill-timed advice which, 
after all, was well-meant and, from her point of view, logical 
enough. Romanism, as Miss Cuthbert termed the ancient 
Christianity of her country, was to her the stronghold on earth of 
the devil and all his angels. Anthony could well remember the 
day, now many years ago, when a new incumbnet of the parish 
church in which the Cuthbert family had worshipped had startled 
the congregation by placing a brass cross and a pair of candle- 
sticks on the communion-table one Easter Sunday, and how 
Miss Cuthbert had on the following day driven into Alnwick, 
called at the castle, and formally remonstrated with the duke for 
having presented one of his livings to a Puseyite; and how, 
having received insufficient satisfaction, she had subsequently 
journeyed to Durham, interviewed the bishop of that ilk who 
then exercised ecclesiastical jurisdiction over Northumberland, 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


S3 

and poured her grievances into the episcopal ears during the 
luncheon at which he hospitably entertained her. 

And so it had come to pass that, partly from natural reserve, 
and partly from a lively dread lest worse things should befall 
him, Anthony had left Miss Cuthbert in perfect ignorance of the 
fact that had it not been for a very nefarious intrigue for which 
the young lady was in no way responsible, he would certainly by 
that time have been no longer a widower. 

Seeing that any mention of the question of his marrying 
again became more and more distasteful to him, Jane Cuthbert 
had soon begun to entertain suspicions that her brother had either 
formed an alliance which he was unable to avow, or that he had 
some liaison which he was unwilling to exchange for more 
legitimate bonds. In these suspicions Miss Cuthbert had found 
herself fully supported by those intimate friends in the neighbour- 
hood with whom she discussed the situation, and who were ever 
ready to condole with her on the unfortunate circumstances in 
which there could be little doubt that the owner of Cuthbertsheugh 
had placed himself. 

Anthony, perfectly aware, as he had explained to his nephew, 
of what was generally said of him in the county, had certainly 
not troubled himself to remove these impressions. Indeed, he 
was rather amused than otherwise by them, and undoubtedly lent 
further colour to them both by absenting himself more frequently 
than ever from Cuthbertsheugh, and by occasionally entertaining 
foreigners there when he returned to it. Before he took to com- 
mitting this last-named outrage on her feelings, however, Jane 
Cuthbert had finally refused any longer to keep house for him. 
Not only did she feel that by continuing to act as mistress of 
Cuthbertsheugh she would expose herself to being thought by the 
county to have accepted what she had already begun to think of 
as Anthony’s “ second establishment,” but she found herself in a 
perpetual state of indignation at her brother’s good-humoured 
indifference to her theological opinions and to her views of 
society generally. Her retirement to a house of her own close to 
Alnwick had, however, been conducted with no open expression 
of ill-feeling on either side. In their own way the brother and 


54 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


sister were attached to each other ; but even had this not been 
the case, her family pride would have prevented Jane Cuthbert 
from allowing outsiders to suppose that she and her brother had 
quarrelled. Occasional visits to Cuthbertsheugh, when she knew 
that she would meet none of Anthony’s foreign friends there, 
saved appearances, while the severance of any official connection 
with his establishment safeguarded both her conscience and her 
prejudices. 

Anthony had been right when he told Jim Sinclair that all 
Miss Cuthbert’s theories as to mysterious entanglements abroad 
being the cause of his still remaining single must have been 
recently upset. 

She had not, of course, failed to observe her brother’s in- 
creasing affection for his nephew, and the pleasure it evidently 
was to him to have Jim at Cuthbertsheugh and to treat him rather 
as a favourite younger brother than as a more distant relative 
belonging to another generation. Jane Cuthbert, indeed, found 
herself confronted by a state of affairs upon which she had never 
calculated. Her earlier recollections of Jim were of a trouble- 
some boy who had refused to treat her with that respect to which 
she had felt herself entitled, and who had not always submitted 
himself to her authority. The cock episode, and some others of 
a similar nature, rankled in her memory. Whatever the short- 
comings of Jim the boy had been in the past, however, Miss 
Cuthbert was obliged to admit to herself that the attitude of Jim 
the young soldier towards her was altogether praiseworthy ; and 
she was conscious of an illogical feeling of annoyance that it 
should be so. She would have preferred to have been given 
some reasonable ground for taking offence at his presence ; some 
obvious excuse for justifying the resentment which her brother’s 
marked satisfaction in introducing him to his friends and neigh- 
bours had aroused in her. 

Sometimes she found herself wishing that he were in reality the 
younger brother Anthony appeared to consider him. At any rate 
the traditions of Cuthbertsheugh would then in all probability be 
unbroken, and Anthony himself would have more excuse for his 
inexplicable conduct. But Jim was not even a Cuthbert. He 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


55 


could take the name, no doubt ; but that was by no means the 
same thing. The record of five hundred years — a record held by 
scarcely any other family in England — would have ceased to 
exist. 

Was Jim Sinclair genuinely attached to her brother, she 
wondered, or was he merely acting a part and striving to make 
himself indispensable to a man nearly twenty years older than 
himself who was evidently attracted by the peculiar charm of his 
personality and unusual good looks ? — a charm to which, with all 
her suspicions, and notwithstanding the fact that Jim’s advent 
seemed to foreshadow the final death-blow to her fondest hopes, 
Miss Cuthbert was conscious of not being herself entirely un- 
susceptible. 

Whatever Anthony’s real intentions were towards the young 
man whom, although her nephew, Jane Cuthbert determined that 
she would never cease to regard as an interloper, he had hitherto 
refrained from naming them to her, and her perplexity had in 
consequence considerably increased. Her past experiences had 
taught her that it was useless to attempt to gain her brother’s 
confidence when he did not intend to give it. All the same, 
where so grave a family matter was at stake she felt that it would 
be nothing short of cowardice on her part not boldly to attack 
him on the subject, and point out to him that, if there were 
ulterior reasons why he could not definitely announce that he 
intended to make Jim Sinclair his heir, he was behaving both 
foolishly and unfairly by the boy in treating him in a manner 
calculated to raise hopes which could never be realised. After 
all, Miss Cuthbert told herself she had a right to question 
Anthony on this subject. Her money came out of Cuthberts- 
heugh, and, if she so chose, it would return to the property at 
her death. It was surely not too much to ask, therefore, that 
she should be told how he intended to leave the place in the 
event of his not marrying again. Moreover, Anthony should 
remember that she was considerably older than he, and it was 
not fitting that his only sister should be treated as though she 
had no interest in a matter so seriously affecting their common 
name. Altogether, she had made up her mind that the situation 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


56 

was intolerable to her self-respect and her position, and when 
Anthony had urged her as a personal favour to himself to stay 
on at Cuthbertsheugh until Jim was obliged to rejoin his regiment, 
she determined that she would seek the earliest opportunity of 
approaching him with a view to obliging him to give her the con- 
fidence she felt to be her due. 

Unfortunately, however, no favourable opportunity had pre- 
sented itself of talking with Anthony privately. On hunting 
mornings she never saw either him or Jim until luncheon time, 
and sometimes not then if the meet were far away and the hounds 
had happened to run in an opposite direction to Cuthbertsheugh. 
In the evenings, if there were not people to dinner — for Anthony 
Cuthbert had recently seemed determined to invite all his neigh- 
bours who were within driving distance — and those who were 
not so were asked to stay the night, according to the best traditions 
of north-country hospitality — billiards and cigars almost imme- 
diately succeeded the after-dinner cigarettes, which last practice 
Jane Cuthbert regarded as a foreign innovation of a nature little 
short of immoral. 

Nevertheless, her opportunity came ; and one afternoon when 
Jim had gone down to a particular spot on the river to wait for 
duck flighting at the dusk, she betook herself to her brother’s 
study where he had remained to write letters. 

Unfortunately for the success of her enterprise, Miss Cuthbert 
opened her attack unskilfully. Like many other people endued 
with a strong sense of duty, especially of their duty to interfere in 
the affairs of others, her manner when she was engaged in acting 
up to this sense was apt to be anything but sympathetic or con- 
ciliatory. She prided herself on her power of going straight to 
the point, as she called it ; and to approach that point by any 
circuitous route would have seemed to her to be a weak proceed- 
ing, savouring, moreover, of Jesuitry. In this instance the point 
to be aimed at was to impress upon Anthony that he was behaving 
like a fool, and Jane Cuthbert aimed at it diligently. Had she 
stopped short here, no great harm would have been done, 
Anthony, easy-going and good-humoured, had been accustomed 
from childhood to be lectured by his eldest sister, and in later 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


57 


life he had regarded her peculiarities and prejudices with in- 
difference tempered by a mild amusement. He recognised, 
indeed, that she was to all intents and purposes of a different 
generation from himself, and was quite ready to admit that in 
some ways her provincial Early Victorianism was an interesting 
link between the present and the past. Unluckily, however, 
Miss Cuthbert did not confine herself to reproaching her brother 
with denying her his confidence, or with exciting hopes in Jim 
Sinclair’s mind which he might afterwards find himself obliged to 
disappoint. Had she done so, it is quite possible that Anthony 
would have frankly told her that she must put all ideas of his 
marrying out of her head ; that he had, therefore, fully decided 
to make Jim his heir ; and that he was convinced of Jim’s worthi- 
ness to carry on the traditions of the family to which, through 
his mother, he half belonged. Jane Cuthbert, on the contrary, 
committed the fatal error of expressing her suspicions that Jim 
might not be all that her brother believed him to be ; and, 
indeed, said more upon this point than she was perhaps quite 
aware of saying. She could not know that her brother had 
systematically set himself to test his nephew’s character and dis- 
position, nor the reasons he had for congratulating himself on the 
satisfactory issue of those tests. 

The consequences of this error in judgment on Miss Cuthbert’s 
part were disastrous. Anthony had already been not a little 
annoyed at the unsympathetic manner his sister had thought fit to 
assume towards Jim, as well as at her manifest disapproval of his 
own attitude. He had never lost his patience when she had 
reproached him for not doing his duty by Cuthbertsheugh and 
those who had possessed it in the past in marrying again, even 
when those reproaches came at a time that made them doubly 
unwelcome and painful. Now, however, to Jane Cuthbert’s 
surprise, and subsequent discomfiture, he turned upon her with 
words which seemed chosen expressly to wound her in her most 
cherished susceptibilities. 

The scene between them was short, but bitter. 

“ If I had discovered a trace in Jim,” Anthony exclaimed, “ of 
his father — whom I considered a selfish hypocrite who worried 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


58 

poor Mary into her grave — he should never have come here 
except as a visitor I should have felt bound to invite as being 
Mary’s son. As it is, Cuthbertsheugh is the boy’s home, when- 
ever he chooses to make it so — and you will have the goodness 
to remember the fact. Stay here as long as you like, Jane — the 
longer the better, so far as I am concerned — provided that you 
make yourself pleasant and take things as you find them. If you 
can’t do that — well, you have your own home in which you can 
do as you please.” 

Jane Cuthbert rose from her chair, trembling with mingled 
astonishment and indignation. 

“Really, Anthony,” she said, scathingly, “your infatuation 
for Jim is as deplorable as your offensive abuse of his poor fathen 
and forgetfulness of Whose minister he was. If you choose to 
make a fool of yourself, and a fool of Jim by leading him to 
expect I don’t know what from you, I cannot help it. But I 
have a right to ask you whether you mean deliberately to sacrifice 
the most valued tradition of our family on account of this silly 
infatuation.” 

“ Will you explain ? ” asked Anthony Cuthbert curtly. 

“You know very well what I mean,” retorted Miss Cuthbert. 

“ The whole county wonders, and has wondered for years, why 
you do not marry again, and you are as well aware as I am what * 
explanation they find for your not doing so. It is thought 
incredible that a Cuthbert of Cuthbertsheugh should allow the 
place to pass away from the direct line.” 

Anthony laughed. “ Perhaps it won’t,” he said. 

His sister sniffed indignantly. “ Then it is true, I conclude, 
what people say,” she returned, “and you have made some 
marriage you dare not confess to ; in that case, you are behaving 
more unjustly to Jim than I could have believed.” 

“ Do you think so ? ” observed Anthony quietly. 

“ That is not answering my question. I have a right to know 
what is eventually to happen to Cuthbertsheugh, and whether I 
am to assume either that you cannot marry, as people say, or that 
you are going to leave your properties to this boy who is not a 
Cuthbert.” 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


59 


“My dear Jane,” Anthony replied drily, “it is always a 
mistake to assume anything of which one is not absolutely certain, 
and then it becomes no assumption.” 

“You forget that my father left me fifty thousand pounds 
which came out of Cuthbertsheugh and the Yorkshire property ! ” 
exclaimed Miss Cuthbert, driven to desperation. “ At least it is 
natural that I should wish to know whether I shall feel justified 
in leaving my capital back to the owner of Cuthbertsheugh or 
not.” 

“ There is always the Church,” remarked her brother, smiling. 

“ Will you, or will you not answer my question, Anthony ? ” 
insisted Jane Cuthbert angrily. 

“ I think not. Ask Jim. He can tell you how much you 
may assume, and how much it would be wiser to leave open to 
doubt ! ” 

At this reply Miss Cuthbert fairly lost her temper. 

“ I shall most certainly not demean myself, or you, by doing 
anything of the kind ! ” she exclaimed indignantly, “ and I refuse 
to stay here to be treated as though I were a stranger, and — and 
to see you making a fool of yourself, as I consider that you are 
doing, Anthony.” 

“ I have already pointed out, my dear Jane, that you have an 
excellent alternative. Alnwick is only fifteen miles from here — 
nothing of a drive, as you know.” 

Anthony Cuthbert’s voice and manner were cold and hard as 
steel. What exactly it was that had aroused in him an anger so 
foreign to his usual nature he was hardly himself aware ; though 
Miss Cuthbert, not altogether unreasonably, found its true origin 
in the fact that she had, in the heat of the battle, spoken more 
slightingly of Jim Sinclair than she had perhaps intended to do. 
This conclusion, however, far from calming her resentment against 
both her brother and her nephew, only served to increase it; and 
Jane Cuthbert, afraid to trust herself to a retort, and perhaps a 
little aghast at having raised a storm of altogether unexpected 
severity, turned abruptly away and walked out of the room. 

The conversation that evening at dinner was intermittent and 
constrained, although Jim Sinclair, in happy ignorance of all that 


6o 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


had occurred while he was lying under a bank waiting for wild- 
duck, did his best to make matters more cheerful, and, noting an 
extra coldness in Miss Cuthbert’s demeanour, laid himself out to 
be more than usually agreeable to her. 

The following morning, however, Jane Cuthbert took her 
departure, little guessing that the day would come when she 
would bitterly regret a misunderstanding destined to leave, in 
her case at all events, the dull pain of ineffectual remorse. 

Anthony Cuthbert never told his nephew of what had passed 
between him and his sister, and explained her departure as having 
been due to domestic events which, he added with a touch of 
sarcasm lost upon Jim, made her presence more desirable at 
Alnwick than at Cuthbertsheugh. The day when Jim Sinclair 
also would have to leave Cuthbertsheugh was fast approaching, 
and until it arrived Anthony spared no pains to strengthen the 
bonds of friendship between himself and his nephew. He 
accompanied him to London, and thence to Southampton 
where he saw him on board the vessel which was to take him 
to Malta. 

The cry of “ All ashore ! ” had been raised, and the tender was 
on the point of leaving the steamer’s side, when Anthony for the 
first time since he had originally made it reminded Jim of his 
suggestion that after a suitable delay he should send in his papers 
and take up his abode permanently at Cuthbertsheugh as his 
home. And Jim Sinclair, grasping his hand, had laughed — the 
gay, careless laugh that the elder man loved to hear as coming 
from a young heart as yet unspoiled by the world, and unscarred 
by its passions. 

“ That depends on what may turn up ! ” was the reply. 
“ Remember our bargain, Anthony ! ” 

Mr. Cuthbert stood on the quay and watched the liner as she 
steamed down Southampton Water and eventually disappeared 
into the haze lowering over the Solent. That night he returned 
to Northumberland; and it seemed to him that Jim’s laugh still 
echoed through the rooms at Cuthbertsheugh. 

Of a truth he missed the boy sorely. Nevertheless, the old 
servants on the place remarked that : “ Mistor-r Cuthbor-rt was a 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


61 


yongor-r mon since yon bonny lad cam t’ ’rouse the auld heugh.” 
And perhaps Anthony Cuthbert had never felt better pleased 
than when he happened to overhear a conversation certainly not 
intended for his ears, in which a young under-keeper, boasting to 
a friend of Jim’s prowess with his gun, alluded to him proudly as 
“ wor (our) Jimmie.” 


CHAPTER VII 


S IX months had passed since Jim Sinclair had left England 
in order to rejoin his regiment which, owing to certain 
ominous war-clouds in the nearer East, had received orders, as 
unwelcome as they were unexpected, to interrupt its homeward 
voyage from India and reinforce the troops already at Malta 
in case the British Government should find itself involved in 
difficulties, should the said clouds come into contact with each 
other and discharge their electricity. Fortunately, however, for 
the peace of Europe, the political atmosphere had cleared, 
though it was not as yet sufficiently serene to allow Captain 
Sinclair’s regiment to continue its journey to Portsmouth. 

May had come, and with it the voluptuous breath of a 
southern spring fast merging into summer; while in far-away 
Northumberland the snow still lay in deep drifts on the Cheviots, 
and icy winds whistled round the grey tower and through the 
courtyard of Cuthbertsheugh, bringing death to the young lambs 
and curses from out of the mouths of the farmers. 

Jim Sinclair, just recovering from a slight recurrence of a fever 
contracted in India, and struggling against an altogether strange 
sensation of general slackness, would have asked for nothing 
better than to feel the invigorating breath of that same North- 
umbrian wind instead of the hot, relaxing blast of the scirocco 
which for several days had been trying the tempers of officers 
and men at Valetta, and causing clouds of dry sandy dust to 
rise and make life more intolerable than the coldest and most 
driving of snow-showers could have made it to a son of the North. 

So far as Jim was concerned, however, the outlook on life 
had become decidedly more hopeful in the course of the last 
twenty-four hours, and this for two reasons. The accursed 
scirocco had dropped, giving place to a light northerly wind, 

62 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


63 


while the sad, leaden-coloured clouds had rolled suddenly back 
to the African coast to be succeeded by a sky of deepest blue 
and sunshine which, if fierce, was at least inspiriting. The 
second reason was certainly not less satisfactory. The scirocco 
which had been blowing hard in the Bosphorus had also 
yielded to temperate zephyrs wafted from Downing Street and 
Berlin, and more than one of Jim’s brother officers at Malta 
had benefited by the change of political weather to the extent 
of being granted a week or two of leave. His own turn had 
now come when he could apply for the same privilege ; and, as 
he could plead the indubitable advantage of change of air after 
his slight attack of fever, leave had been all the more readily 
accorded 4 him. 

Of the very limited number of places within convenient 
reach of Malta, Syracuse had appealed to Jim as being by far 
the most attractive spot at which to disembark in the first 
instance. Italy was a sealed book to him ; but the Sicilian 
coast being comparatively so near, it seemed unwise not to take 
the opportunity of visiting it. From Syracuse it would be easy 
to go to other places in the island, if time allowed him to do 
so. Jim’s luggage was packed and ready to be conveyed to 
the little Italian steamer which was to sail that night. He had 
taken the precaution of engaging a Sicilian youth to act as his 
servant and interpreter during his trip — an active, well-featured 
young fellow who had good repute for honesty and devotedness 
to those who had taken him under similar circumstances. Pro- 
fessing the utmost contempt for the Maltese, Ezio invariably 
changed the subject when asked why he did not live in Sicily ; 
but whatever differences of opinion he might have had with the 
authorities of his own island he had always proved himself 
absolutely loyal to those whose pay he took. 

It seemed to Jim as though the hour would never arrive 
at which the steamer was timed to get under way. He hated 
Malta, which he characterised as a beastly hole, and was 
delighted at the prospect of getting away from it, even for a couple 
of weeks. 


6 4 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


At last the sun sank below the horizon, and after the brief 
twilight of the southern night fell rapidly. The stars, their lustre 
undimmed as yet by the yellow glory of the May moon, which 
would rise out of the sea in an hour or two, hung low in a sky 
that every moment assumed a deeper violet hue, and gave to 
the eye the impression of being able to penetrate the unfathom- 
able spaces behind them, while in the harbour beneath Jim’s 
windows innumerable lights from the men-of-war and lesser 
craft cast their rays over the waters. 

Dinner passed away a portion of the time, and shortly before 
ten o’clock Jim at last found himself on the deck of the Rubat- 
tino steamer whither Ezio had preceded him, and had already 
arranged his cabin for the night. A glance into that cabin, how- 
ever, and a single respiration of the atmosphere which seemed to 
rush up and hit him in the face as he descended the companion, 
determined the fact that the upper deck was indubitably the place 
to pass the remaining hours of the night ; the more so as by dawn 
the Sicilian coast would be already visible. By this time the 
moon had risen, and its soft clear light brought the outline of 
every vessel in the harbour in sharp relief ; while above, gleam- 
ing white in under its beams, Valetta looked like some spectral 
city and anything but the noisy little town that Jim knew so well 
and disliked so cordially. 

“ We shall have a good voyage,” he said to Ezio, who spoke 
English creditably, if not accurately. 

Ezio smiled, and made a quick gesture with both his hands. 

“ Above,” he replied, “ it is good : but below — well, the 
signore will see for himself when we are out of the harbour and 
the shelter of the island. The scirocco has gone, it is true — but 
the sea is still rough outside.” 

“ And you will be sick, I suppose ? ” Jim observed, laughing. 

“ I — sick ! ” exclaimed Ezio indignantly. “ The signore does 
not know that I am of Messina — and that I knew how to manage 
a boat when I was — oh, eight years old. Sick ? blessed saints ! ” 

Jim duly apologised. “ All the same,” he added, “ I don’t 
think I shall go below. I noticed just now that there were 
several of your compatriots already preparing to be ill.” 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


65 


The Sicilian boy, for he was little more, laughed disdainfully. 
“ Those ? ” he returned. “ They are from the Continent — Italians ! 
che vuole f ” 

Jim Sinclair was reduced to silence. It was his first lesson 
in Sicilian patriotism. “ Well,” he said presently, “ see if you 
can get hold of a chair, and bring me up a coat from the cabin. 
It doesn’t seem to me to matter whether people are from the 
Continent, or not, when they are sea-sick,” he continued to him- 
self, as Ezio disappeared down the companion ; “ anyway, they are 
not pleasant fellow-travellers — especially if their last meal has 
been seasoned with garlic ! ” 

The last consignment of cargo was being lowered into the 
hold, and the captain had taken up his position on the bridge. 
Jim, pacing up and down the deck, began for the first time to take 
notice of the other passengers who, like himself, preferred the 
fresh air on deck to the stuffiness of the saloon, at any rate so 
long as the vessel was still within the harbour. There were only 
half-a-dozen or so who appeared to be saloon passengers, and 
these were evidently commercial travellers returning to Syracuse, 
talking eagerly among themselves and smoking the strongest of 
black cigars. Jim had already made up his mind that should he 
wish for conversation during the voyage, it would have to be 
carried on with Ezio, who was apparently always ready to make 
himself agreeable, and from whom he could learn something in- 
teresting about his country and people — provided, of course, that 
the boy had not been lying, and that he would be equal to con- 
versation in an hour’s time. His attention, however, was sud- 
denly arrested by the appearance on the deck of an addition to 
his fellow-passengers. A woman, quietly but well dressed, and 
from her carriage and figure evidently a lady, emerged from the 
companion closely followed by another who, carrying wraps and 
cushions, was no doubt her maid. Almost immediately after- 
wards, a sailor brought a deck-chair, and the new-comer proceeded 
to instal herself in a sheltered position behind the bridge. The 
moonlight fell full on her face as she settled herself in the chair, 
and Jim could see that she was young and, if he were not mis- 
taken, decidedly good-looking. The commercial travellers inter- 
5 


66 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


rupted their discussion to stare hard at the two women ; but Jim, 
after his first glance, resumed his walk up and down the deck. 
The new arrival would not, he thought, prove of any particular 
interest to him — being, no doubt, some Sicilian lady returning to 
her island — and, as such, extremely unlikely to be able to con- 
verse in the English tongue even should she condescend to notice 
the presence of an unknown foreigner. That she was not Maltese 
he felt tolerably certain, for she was both taller and considerably 
fairer than the Maltese ladies he had been accustomed to see. 

Presently Ezio reappeared with a chair and Jim’s coat. He 
was about to place the chair near to that of the lady, as this 
would be the most sheltered spot on deck ; but Jim stopped 
him. “ Put it down anywhere,” he said, “ I will find a place 
presently.” 

The lady looked in his direction, her attention probably 
attracted by his English ; and after giving him and Ezio a rapid 
but comprehensive glance, she turned to her maid and apparently 
gave her some direction, for the woman left her and went below, 
returning almost immediately with a small green-morocco bag 
which she deposited in the other’s lap. At this moment the 
vessel began to get under way, and in a few more minutes was 
gliding out of the harbour and heading for the open sea. 

Jim went to the side and leaning over it watched the lights of 
Valetta gradually receding into the distance. The night was so 
still that the noise from the harbour and even from the town 
above it seemed to follow the steamer, becoming fainter and more 
confused until at last no sound was audible except the mono- 
tonous throbbing of the engines and the swish of the water as 
the screw churned it into a milky track which seethed and 
bubbled in the moonlight. 

For the space of another half-hour little or no motion of the 
vessel was perceptible, and Jim began to think that Ezio’s predic- 
tions were unnecessarily pessimistic. Gradually, however, he 
became aware of a gentle roll, which increased until there could 
be no doubt that the scirocco had, as his servant had foreseen, 
left a heavy swell behind it. A glance down the deck revealed 
the fact that the commercial travellers had retired from the scene, 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


67 


and were no doubt adding to the horrors taking place below. 
The lady in the chair was the sole occupant of the deck, and 
was, to all appearance, completely at her ease, with no present 
intentions of descending to her cabin. 

The rolling soon increased to such a degree that sitting 
became preferable to attempting to walk about, and Jim was 
engaged in drawing his chair into a comfortable place, when a 
heavier lurch than usual sent the leather bag which his unknown 
companion had kept beside her sliding down the deck almost to 
his feet. To pick it up and restore it to its owner with a bow 
was the affair of a moment, and Jim was on the point of return- 
ing to his seat, when he paused in some astonishment at hearing 
himself thanked in excellent English, which sounded all the more 
attractive on account of its foreign accent, and the low, well- 
modulated voice in which it was spoken. 

Yes ; his first impressions had certainly been correct. The 
lady, whoever she might be, was not only good-looking, she was 
exceedingly pretty. Moreover, she was most unmistakably a 
lady, and she talked English. Possibly Ezio’s services, even if 
they were still available, might not be required after all ! 

“ Thank you so much ! ” the soft voice said ; as its possessor 
looked at him, Jim thought, a little fixedly, as though studying 
his features in the moonlight. “ Like myself,” it continued, 
“you prefer the deck to that horrible saloon and those stuffy 
cabins.” 

“ Infinitely,” replied Jim, smiling. 

“ I also ! When I came on board they showed me into a 
kind of box, which they said was my cabin ; and, God ! how it 
smelt ! ” 

The expression, coming from feminine lips, sounded startling 
to Jim Sinclair’s English ears. 

“ I shall delay going there as long as possible,” continued 
the lady. “ It is certainly pleasanter up here, and I like watching 
the sea.” 

“You are evidently a good sailor,” Jim observed a little 
hesitatingly. It seemed somewhat rude, he thought, to address 
her so abruptly ; but then he comforted himself with the reflec- 


68 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


tion that English, after all, was a boorish language, which admitted 
of few courtesies. Besides, how in the world should he know 
whether to call the lady Madame or Mademoiselle, were he to 
attempt a compromise in French ? She might be either ; though 
a small coronet stamped upon the bag he had just restored to 
her led him to conclude that she was married. 

“Yes; I am a good sailor,” assented his companion, “so 
long as I do not go below. And you, Mr. Sinclair, you are a 
good sailor also, being English — or perhaps I should rather say 
Scotch — it is a matter of course.” 

Jim started. “ How did you know my name ? ” he asked. 

“ How ? by a comparatively simple process. I saw it on 
your luggage. I am the marchesa di San Vico. It is only fair 
that I should tell you my name, as I have no luggage for you to 
look at. My boxes preceded me, as I had intended to leave 
Malta yesterday.” 

Jim bowed. Under the circumstances there did not seem 
to be anything else to do. 

“ Now that we have been formally presented to one another,” 
proceeded the marchesa di San Vico, “ will you not bring your 
chair here? You prevented your servant from placing it here 
before, in order not to inconvenience me — no? Pray move it, 
Mr. Sinclair, this is the only really sheltered spot on the deck; 
and, as fellow-travellers, it may be permitted to us to converse, 
is it not so? Naturally, you are going to Siracusa, since the ship 
goes nowhere else ; and, equally naturally, I am going there also, 
on my way back to Italy.” 

The marchesa leaned back on her cushions, and looked at 
Jim with a gleam of amusement in her eyes. 

“Yes, madame,” he replied, dragging his chair nearer to her 
own, as he spoke, “ I am going to Syracuse, and then — well, I do 
not know where ! My regiment is at Malta, for the present, and 
I have a few days' leave, which I mean to spend in Sicily.” 

“ Benissimo ! You know Sicily, of course ? ” 

“I have never been there,” answered Jim; “nor, I am 
ashamed to say, to Italy. You, madame, are Sicilian, no 
doubt ? ” 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


69 

The marchesa di San Vico laughed softly. “ I ? oh, not at 
all ! I am Italian — from Central Italy. I have been travelling 
in Tunis ; indeed, I spent most of the winter there. And now I 
am on my way home. What are you going to do in Sicily, Mr. 
Sinclair, if it is not an indiscreet question ? ” 

Jim murmured something about Greek temples — the result of 
searching the guide-books. There was decidedly something very 
attractive about this Italian marchesa ; and her precise manner 
of speaking English, with its careful pronunciation of every 
syllable, fell pleasantly on the ear. All the same, Jim Sin- 
clair was a discreet young man who, notwithstanding a great 
deal of natural simplicity, was by no means ignorant of the ways 
of the world. Tlje lady, he thought, might be all she said she 
was, and that she appeared to be. But then, again, she might not. 

Great ladies, or even, for that matter, smaller ones, did 
not, he told himself, pick up casual acquaintances while on a 
journey of a few hours’ duration ; and he had no reason to sup- 
pose that Italian ladies differed from his own countrywomen in 
this respect. It would be inconvenient to find a jealous husband 
waiting on the quay at Syracuse who, in response to a hint or a 
complaint from his spouse, might challenge him to fight a duel, 
or make himself obnoxious in some way even more unpleasant. 
He relapsed into silence ; and the marchesa, watching him from 
under a pair of drooping eyelids, presently broke into a silvery 
laugh. 

“ I am quite aware that it is scarcely comnie il faut” she said 
suddenly, as though she had divined his thoughts, “ but then, 
what would you have ? I am bored, and so, probably, are you. 
Why should we not talk together to pass away the time on board 
this odious steamer? Perhaps you are afraid that I am some 
adventuress, posing as the marchesa di San Vico, but I assure 
you that I am genuine, and that this is my name, or rather my 
title.” 

Jim’s fair face flushed, and he laughed nervously. “ One is 
always afraid of intruding one’s acquaintance on strangers,” he 
said quickly, “ and especially on ladies. At least,” he added, “ we 
English are.” 


7o 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


“ Precisely ! ” replied his companion. “ It was because I 
knew you were an English gentleman that I permitted myself to 
enter into conversation with you. In the case of one of my own 
compatriots, it would have been a different affair. Will you do 
me a favour ? I want a cup of black coffee and a biscuit. One 
does not dine well in the hotel at Malta. My maid, I am afraid, 
is — we can imagine how she is occupied at this moment — and 
I am positively afraid of venturing into that saloon ! Would 
you be very kind, and tell the steward to bring me the coffee 
here ? ” 

Jim, only too anxious to make amends for any hesitation he 
feared he had shown in meeting the marchesa’s readiness to trust 
an Englishman, not to presume on her advances, promptly went 
below to order the coffee. He found the commercial travellers pro- 
strate on the red velvet couches, while heart-rending groans issued 
from the cabins opening off the saloon. As he was looking for 
the steward, Ezio appeared, alert and smiling as usual, and asked 
what the signore might be wanting. Jim explained his errand 
as briefly as possible, and beat a hasty retreat up the companion 
to the fresh air on deck. He saw that the marchesa had risen 
from her chair, and was leaning against the side of the vessel 
looking at the waves racing past them. She was apparently un- 
aware of his approach, and was grasping one of the iron davits 
supporting a boat in order to steady herself. 

“For Heaven’s sake do not lean over the side ! ” he called to 
her hastily. “ It is not safe,” he added, “ we are rolling too much. 
You might lose your balance, and then ” 

She turned quickly. “And then?” she repeated with a 
curious note of indifference in her voice. Her eyes flashed 
sapphire-like in the moonlight as she faced him ; and for the first 
time Jim realised their full beauty. The amused and perhaps 
slightly mischievous expression her features had worn while talk- 
ing to him from her chair had given place to a hard, almost con- 
temptuous look — the look of a woman for whom life had lost its 
illusions, and whom a bitter experience had taught that its joys 
were but empty. This expression vanished, however, as quickly 
as the flash of a mingled resentment and contempt in her eyes, 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


7i 


and the marchesa di San Vico’s voice and manner were as gentle 
and at the same time as subtly suggestive of an under-current 
of diablerie as they had been before. 

“ I did not think you would have executed my commission 
so quickly!” she said in reply to Jim’s apologies for having, as 
he feared, startled her by his sudden warning. “ The saloon, I 
suppose, was a scene of horror, so you fled from it ! ” 

Jim laughed. “ Appalling, marchesa ! ” he answered, and felt 
extremely proud of himself for having successfully delivered him- 
self of the Italian title. To address his new acquaintance as 
“ madame” did not sound altogether satisfactory, and Jim had a 
distinct remembrance of having heard a Neapolitan marchesa 
whom he had met at dinner at Valetta addressed by her title ; a 
proceeding which had seemed to him at the time to be remark- 
able, and open to criticism on the score of snobbishness. 

“ And my coffee, Mr. Sinclair ? ” 

“ The steward will bring it. I sent my servant to find him, 
and to say that he was to bring it up here at once. Are you sure 
there is nothing more that you want from below? You do not 
seem to be provided with wraps — and though it is warm enough 
now it will be colder towards the dawn.” 

The marchesa raised her eyebrows. “ Dawn ! ” she repeated. 
“And do you imagine that I am going to remain on deck the 
whole night ? Ah, no, there are limits to ignoring les convenances 
even where an Englishman is concerned. No, I shall postpone 
the evil hour of going to my cabin as long — well, as long as it is 
permissible to do so — and I shall probably return to the deck as 
soon as that respectable person, the sun, has shown himself.” 

Jim laughed. “ Of course,” he replied. “ What an idiot I 
am. But the moon, marchesa, is not the moon respectable ? ” 

“ Oh, by no means ! quite the reverse. She is generally con- 
sidered to be a very undesirable chaperone — at all events with us 
in Italy. Your cold Northern moon may be more discreet — I do 
not know, for I was never in your country." 

“ Never in England ? ” exclaimed Jim, astonished. “ And yet 
you speak English so well, far more correctly than I do, I’m 
afraid ! ” 


72 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


“ That means nothing. When I was a child I had English 
nurses, and afterwards English governesses. I know the lan- 
guage well — yes ! but I do dreadful things in it. For example, I 
often leave out your letter h like your English servants do, especi- 
ally when I am talking quickly.” 

“We don’t drop our #s,” observed Jim, “but we drop lots 
of other things — whole syllables, sometimes. That is why I 
like to listen to you — you pronounce every syllable clearly. But 
you know plenty of English people, no doubt ? ” 

“A few, not many. In Florence, where I lived before I 
married, and in Rome, where I lived until — well, until recently — 
there are many of your compatriots, of course. But the large 
majority of them we Italians know nothing of, and — you will not 
think me impolite, Mr. Sinclair — we do not want to know them. 
There are exceptions, naturally, and one recognises an English- 
man or an Englishwoman — how do you say it?— per bene — at a 
glance, as a rule. Ah, here comes my coffee. Bravo ! ” 

As the marchesa di San Vico spoke, the steward appeared, 
making careful progress along the deck with a small tray which 
he proceeded to place on a bench by the side of her chair. “ It 
will not be so easy to drink — ” she continued, laughing. 

“ Let me hold the tray,” Jim said, “ while you seize an op- 
portune moment between the lurches ! otherwise, I am afraid the 
coffee will fly along the deck like your bag.” 

“ Talking of English I have known,” resumed the marchesa, as 
she broke a biscuit and dipped it in her coffee; “I once met a 
family of your name. They were staying in Rome, and I met them 
at dinner at your embassy. There was a mother, Lady — I forget 
the title — and a beautiful daughter, who afterwards, I was told, made 
a great marriage. They were from Scotland, one of your great 
Scottish families, and relations, no doubt, of yours, Mr. Sinclair.” 

“ Scarcely,” replied Jim. “ I think I know whom you mean. 
Originally we were the same family, but that is a question of two 
or three hundred years ago. My people are Yorkshire — one of 
our northern English counties, you know. We are a younger 
branch of the Scottish clan, and have practically nothing in common 
with them except the name, and some very remote ancestors.” 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


73 

“ Ah ! so you, of course, call yourself English, and your family 
has another title, doubtless.” 

“ Teesdale,” replied Jim briefly. “ My parents are dead,” 
he continued ; “ but my father was a brother of the present Lord 
Teesdale. He was a parson.” 

“ A — what ? ” asked the marchesa, with a puzzled air. 

“ Oh — well, a priest, I suppose he would be called with you.” 

The marchesa di San Vico laid down her coffee-cup and 
stared at him. 

“What did you say — a priest?” she exclaimed; “but — but, 
Mr. Sinclair, it is incredible what you tell me ! Ah, but I am an 
imbecile ! I forgot. Of course, your English clergy marry. Yes : 
I have seen them with their wives and families walking about 
our churches. It is very funny. And so, you are the son of a 
— what do you call it, a ? ” 

“ A parson,” supplemented Jim, laughing to himself, and wish- 
ing that Anthony Cuthbert could have heard their conversation. 

“ Diamine ! ” ejaculated the marchesa in her native tongue. 
“ It is certainly very funny. But you do not look like it,” she 
concluded, a little abruptly. 

At this remark Jim Sinclair burst into open laughter. “ I 
am glad of that ! ” he said drily. 

They sat in silence for some minutes. There was something 
fascinating, to good sailors, in looking aloft into the rigging and 
watching the tops of the masts swaying in the moonlight; in 
listening to the hiss and swish of the waves, and the dull beat 
of the engines as the vessel ploughed her way through the midst 
of the great rollers. There was not a breath of wind; and, 
protected by the bridge from the draught the ship was making 
by her own progress, the air around them was soft and warm as 
that of midsummer. Ezio had made an occasional appearance 
on deck, but seeing Jim engaged in conversation with his fellow- 
passenger, had discreetly retired, having at last been told that he 
would not be wanted until the vessel was making the port of 
Syracuse. 

“Will the marchese” — a happy inspiration told Jim that the 
husband of a marchesa must in all probability be a marchese — 


74 ANTHONY CUTHBERT 

“ meet you on our arrival at Syracuse ? ” he asked his companion 
presently. 

The marchesa di San Vico started violently, apparently 
aroused from deep meditation, and again the expression came 
over her face that Jim had seen when he had besought her not 
to lean over the bulwark of the steamer. 

“There is no marchese di San Vico,” was her disconcert- 
ing reply to his question. “I, Mr. Sinclair, am marchesa di 
San Vico in my own right, and I do not bear my husband’s 
title.” 

“I beg your pardon a thousand times !” said poor Jim. It 
was evident that he had blundered upon an unwelcome subject, 
if the marchesa’s expression of countenance and the chilling 
accents were to be held as indicative of her thoughts. The 
apology, however, was hardly out of his mouth before she seemed 
to recover her usual demeanour. 

“There is no necessity to beg my pardon,” she said, with a 
gracious little smile ; “ it was a very natural question to ask. No, 
my husband will not meet me at Siracusa. He is at this moment 
in Rome. No doubt you are wondering why I bear a different 
name from his. Well, it is very easily explained. I happen to be 
my father’s only child ; and, therefore, to possess the right to bear 
one of his several titles which, under the conditions of its original 
creation, was transmissible in the female line. I believe that 
you have similar instances in your country, is it not true? 
Where, if I am not mistaken our Italian law under such circum- 
stances differs from yours is in the fact that the female inheritance 
of such titles is limited to one generation only. I could not, for 
example, transmit the title of San Vico to a daughter. After one 
female inheritance, it would have to revert to the nearest of kin 
in the male line, or become extinct. That question, however, 
does not concern me, as I have no children. But, for — for family 
reasons, it is more convenient to me to assume my own title than 
that of my husband ; which, for the rest, is one of a far more 
recent creation.” 

“ You seem to be well up in the subject, marchesa,” said Jim, 
who was only anxious to avoid further blunders. 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


75 

She darted a quick glance at him. “ I have reason to be so,” 
she replied, a little bitterly. 

“You do not, I suppose, intend to stop in Syracuse?” 
hazarded Jim presently. Something, he could scarcely have told 
himself what, prompted him to ask her the question. 

The marchesa looked him full in the face for the space of a 
second or two. Then she shrugged her shoulders. “ I have no 
plans,” she replied. “ Like yourself, Mr. Sinclair, I am — how do 
you call it ? — on leave, do you not ? I am my own mistress, and 
shall go where the spirit moves me to go. Perhaps to Palermo, 
perhaps to Naples, who knows ? Eventually, no doubt, to Tuscany, 
where I live. To have no fixed plans is one of the pleasures of 
being independent, is it not ? ” 

Without waiting for his reply, she rose from her chair and 
went to the side of the vessel, where she remained for a few 
moments looking out over the sea which was now rapidly be- 
coming calmer. Then she turned to Jim with a smile, as the 
eight bells of midnight sounded. 

“ That reminds me of les convenances” she said ; “ it is 
mezzanotte , as we call it, and, very unwillingly, I must go to my 
cabin. No,” she added, as Jim was about to bring her cushions 
from the chair, “my maid will see to those in the morning, 
thank you, and I will take this wrap with me. A proposito , 
you may make use of the cushions if you like, Mr. Sinclair — as, 
being a man, I conclude you will avail yourself of your privileges 
to spend the remainder of the night on deck.” She moved 
towards the companion, accompanied by Jim, and as she left 
the deck she held out her hand to him. “Good night,” she 
said. “ I am very pleased to have been so fortunate as 
to have your society this evening. Please pardon my bad 
English ! ” 

Jim Sinclair gave her hand a very British shake, altogether 
forgetting to bow over it — if, indeed, it ever entered his head 
to do so. 

“Good night, marchesa,” he replied. “It is I who ought 
to thank you for having allowed me to talk to you ! But we 
shall meet in the morning, shall we not? and you will let me 


7 6 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


do anything I can for you when we land? I have a Sicilian 
servant with me who understands the ropes.” 

“The ropes?” 

“Oh, forgive me! I’m afraid I used slang. I mean, he 
knows the ways of the place.” 

The marchesa laughed. “You try my English too much!” 
she said. “ I could not imagine why I should need ropes to 
land at Siracusa. Yes ; of course we shall meet in the morning, 
if you wish. I do not think of leaving Siracusa to-morrow, at 
all events. A long day in the train after a night at sea is not 
a pleasant thing to contemplate.” 

With a little inclination of her head the marchesa di San 
Vico left him and descended the companion leading to the 
saloon. For the best part of the next hour Jim paced up and 
down the deck, feeling decidedly indisposed to settle himself 
in his chair in order to sleep. His curiosity indeed was strangely 
excited by this, his first experience of any acquaintanceship with 
ladies other than of his own nation ; and that the marchesa di 
San Vico was all that she had given him to understand her to 
be, he had now no longer the slightest doubt. No adventuress, 
he told himself, could be so perfectly natural in her manner 
as she had been all that evening. Moreover, there had been 
throughout their conversation that subtle and indescribable 
“ something ” in her demeanour which, notwithstanding her 
readiness to be friendly, could not be mistaken by anybody 
having a right to call himself a gentleman for anything but 
the attitude of a well-bred woman of the world. Why a young 
married woman who could not be more than his own age, if 
as much, and who was as good-looking and of as high a rank 
as the marchesa di San Vico, should be travelling in out-of- 
the-way places without her husband, and with no escort but 
an obviously incapable maid, was, Jim assured himself, no affair 
of his. As to the husband, whose name she evidently preferred 
not to bear, there was perhaps some temporary disagreement 
with him, or, again, perhaps there was nothing of the kind. 
It was quite possible, after all, that having inherited an older 
and more important title than her husband’s, the marchesa might 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


77 


only be conforming to the customs of her country in choosing 
to be known by it — as, indeed, she had as good as said was 
the case. 

Nevertheless, Jim was by no means unobservant; and the 
sudden expression of almost passionate disgust and disdain 
which he had twice seen on her face, coupled with that of a 
certain weariness, convinced him that the marchesa di San 
Vico, notwithstanding the natural gaiety and simplicity of her 
manner which had at once attracted him almost as much as her 
beauty, must have some trouble in her life for which, perhaps, 
she was seeking an anodyne in travelling. 

At length he came to the conclusion that for the moment, 
at all events, there was nothing to be done but to try to snatch 
a few hours’ sleep before the steamer came within sight of Sicily. 
If the lady remained at Syracuse for a day or two, so much the 
better. They could visit together those Greek monuments of 
which he had read in his Baedeker; and perhaps they might 
even dine together at the hotel, if this were not outraging 
Italian proprieties. 

With these pleasant anticipations he stretched himself on 
his deck-chair, and very soon the gentle motion of the vessel 
induced a welcome sensation of drowsiness. 

It was just at the moment when this drowsiness was merging 
into a sound sleep that Jim, unconsciously delivering himself of 
a sentiment clearly indicative of psychological trouble in the 
near future, murmured to the heedless moon : — 

“What ripping eyes, by Jove ! and if the husband has treated 
her badly, what a damned fool he must be ! ” 


CHAPTER VIII 


r an early hour the following morning, Jim Sinclair was 



roused from his slumbers by Ezio, who informed him that 
the promontory of the Maddalena was already in sight, and that 
the steamer would soon be making the entrance to the harbour 
of Syracuse. 

As a matter of fact, the said promontory was then five-and- 
twenty miles distant at least, although in the clear atmosphere of 
a spring morning on the southern sea it looked near enough to 
justify Ezio’s statement. Jim got out of his chair, and shook 
himself somewhat after the manner of a Newfoundland dog com- 
mencing the business of the day. The first question was as to 
the possibility of washing, at all events provisionally, until a 
second and more complete toilette could be performed on shore. 
Apparently Ezio, mindful of the needs of an English padrone, 
had already provided for a necessity which experience had taught 
him would be the first he would be called upon to find some 
means of satisfying. There was a bathroom vacant, he informed 
Jim; and if the signore wished to change his clothes, he had laid 
out a suit ready for him in his cabin. From what he had seen 
of his fellow-passengers, the marchesa di San Vico alone ex- 
cepted, Jim thought that it was unlikely that the bathroom would 
ever be anything else but vacant ; and that there was, therefore, 
no particular reason to hurry below in order to secure it. A sailor 
engaged in polishing some brass-work on the deck informed Ezio 
that it would probably be two hours before they arrived at Syra- 
cuse, at the same time holding up two grimy fingers in order the 
better to convey his intelligence to the Englishman. Realising 
that there was plenty of time before him, Jim made no haste to 
go below. The morning air was deliciously fresh, and felt in- 
vigorating after the relaxing atmosphere of Malta during the past 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


79 


days of scirocco. The sea was blue as turquoise under a cloudless 
sky, and smooth as the surface of a looking-glass, ruffled only 
here and there by some faint current of air turning its azure to 
darkest purple ; while a school of dolphins leaped and plunged 
merrily by the vessel’s side as though escorting her into harbour. 
The curved outlines of the Sicilian coast rose immediately ahead, 
though Syracuse was as yet concealed by the rocky peninsula of 
the Maddalena. Half a mile or so from the steamer a fleet of 
fishing-boats lay becalmed, their lateen-rigged sails gleaming 
white in the sunlight like the outspread wings of gigantic sea- 
birds. Of the marchesa di San Vico, however, there was no 
sign, although Jim caught a glimpse of her maid who, greenish- 
yellow of hue and generally dishevelled, appeared for a moment 
at the top of the companion, and, after casting a shuddering 
glance of aversion at the sea, hurriedly retreated. Jim lingered 
for another half-hour on deck and then descended to his 
cabin; and it was a very neatly dressed and altogether typical 
specimen of a well-bred young Englishman who reappeared as 
the vessel was within sight of the white houses and the quays 
of Syracuse. The marchesa di San Vico was on the deck, 
watching the process of entering the harbour. The evening 
before she had been clad in a dress of some dark-coloured ma- 
terial ; but now, as she turned and greeted Jim with a smile and 
wished him “ Good morning,” he was quick to perceive that she 
looked prettier and more attractive than ever in a cool white 
serge, relieved by touches here and there of pale green ; while a 
broad and shady hat, trimmed with the same colours, sat becom- 
ingly on a wealth of curling hair which the daylight showed to 
be of a dark chestnut, changing now and again to auburn as the 
rays of the sun fell upon it. Jim noted, too, that her complexion, 
which had seemed in the moonlight to be pale, was in reality 
warm and clear, but the eyes were the same large, liquid eyes of 
deep violet-colour which had flashed upon him a few hours 
before, and of which, it must be confessed, he had thought more 
than once ere he had finally fallen asleep in his deck-chair. If 
Jim had still entertained any doubt as to his new acquaintance 
being in very truth a lady, and not merely a very creditable imita- 


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ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


tion of the genuine species, it would at once have been dispelled 
by her appearance under the searching light of a summer morn- 
ing. There was something in the graceful and high-bred carriage 
of the head, in the natural manner betraying no trace of self- 
consciousness, but only the quiet, unobtrusive ease of a young 
and very pretty woman assured of her own unquestioned posi- 
tion, that cocotte or adventuress could have succeeded in coun- 
terfeiting. 

If Jim Sinclair could take in all these things at a glance, as he 
returned the marchesa’s greeting and expressed his hopes that she 
had not found the atmosphere of her cabin too insupportable, it 
was perhaps not unnatural that the marchesa di San Vico should 
on her part have wished to see whether the decidedly favourable 
impressions she had received of the young English officer she 
had talked with in a possibly deceptive moonlight would be con- 
firmed by the truth-telling light of day. Apparently the rapid 
and scrutinising glance bestowed on Jim as he approached her 
had been satisfactory in this respect ; and, indeed, she would 
have been hypercritical had she discovered anything amiss either 
with his appearance or his manner. Her scrutiny, on the con- 
trary, had revealed the fact that if the moonlight had been 
deceptive, it was only in so far as it had failed to display to 
their full advantage the young Englishman’s remarkable good 
looks, and the unmistakable signs of good breeding which 
accompanied them. The scrutinising gaze, moreover, had 
been reciprocal ; and though neither so prolonged nor so want- 
ing in delicacy as that which Wagner causes to pass between 
Tristan and Isolde on the deck of their northern vessel, this 
inquiring look of a mutual admiration scarcely veiled, passing 
between two individuals but yesterday strangers to one another } 
was equally fraught with peril to both. 

The confusion on deck consequent on the preparations for 
landing made any further conversation impossible for the 
moment ; and since Syracuse did not then boast of more than 
one hotel at all worthy of the name, it was natural enough Ezio 
should have consigned Jim’s luggage to the porter of the said 
establishment, at the same time suggesting that the signore should 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


81 


proceed thither while he himself undertook to pass the luggage 
through the custom-house. His signore, however, insisted on 
seeing the marchesa and her maid, whose own boxes were pre- 
sumably already locked up in the customs pending the arrival of 
their owners, safely into the little carriage which would convey 
them to the hotel. 

“ But come with us, I beg of you,” the marchesa exclaimed, 
“ there is room for three.” And she motioned to the driver to 
let down the diminutive tray which did duty for a back seat. Jim 
glanced at the maid, and from her impassive countenance gathered 
that she saw nothing compromising in the arrangement. Perhaps 
the marchesa di San Vico noticed his glance, for she continued : 
“ My maid will sit opposite to us. For the rest, we have a very 
short distance to go.” 

Jim was very ready to accept her offer. He could not be 
inspired to know that the marchesa had thought it more prudent 
previously to explain to her attendant that although she had never 
before met the English gentleman who was their fellow-passenger 
on board the steamer, she knew him by name very well, and was 
acquainted with other members of his family. As a matter of 
fact, the marchesa had very good reasons for this display of fore- 
sight. The woman had only been in her service since she had 
decided to spend the winter and early spring months in Algeria 
and Tunis ; and as in the course of her travels she had studiously 
refused to make any acquaintances, it was obvious that some 
explanation must be forthcoming to account for her sudden 
departure from a hitherto invariable rule. 

On arriving at the hotel, the triumphant cracking of the 
driver’s whip brought the landlord, his wife, and all his staff to 
the entrance. Jim sprang out and helped the marchesa to alight, 
at the same time taking her bag from the hands of her maid. 
Then there unexpectedly arose a situation decidedly embarrass- 
ing to a naturally modest young man. The landlord, doubly 
excited by the arrival of visitors and at the opportunity of airing 
a smattering of English, rushed at Jim. 

“ Rooms ? ” he exclaimed, “ naturally there were rooms ! 
A large double-bedded room with a sitting-room opening off it, 
6 


82 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


with a view that was stupendous, magnificent ! The very apart- 
ment, indeed, that his excellency the English Ambassador had 
occupied when he came to Syracuse last year. Or, if a — how 
was it called in English? — a letto matrimoniale was preferred, 
there was another apartment equally good at the disposal of their 
excellencies. The ambassador, to be sure, had no wife — a very 
different matter — Sicuro ! ” 

Jim, blushing furiously, remained speechless with confusion, 
and abruptly turned his back on the eager host and his surround- 
ing myrmidons. The marchesa di San Vico saved an otherwise 
intolerable position by breaking into a peal of laughter, to which 
her maid responded by a fit of irrepressible giggles. 

“No, my friend,” she said to the landlord, “ you are altogether 
under a misapprehension. The signore does not happen to be 
my husband. We are fellow-travellers for the moment, and also 
acquaintances, but it is not a case of desiring the kind of accom- 
modation you offer. The signore, as you are already aware, is 
English, and I am the marchesa di San Vico, in Tuscany. I 
will take the apartment you name, for a day or two, at all events 
— that which has the view, you understand — not the other. I 
conclude that there is a second bedroom belonging to it which 
my maid can occupy. In a few minutes this gentleman’s servant 
will be here with his luggage, and he will then choose his own 
rooms. In the meantime, perhaps, you will show me to mine 
and send somebody to the custom-house with my maid, who will, 
if necessary, open my boxes for examination. They should have 
arrived here yesterday by the steamer from Malta.” 

All this was spoken in rapid Italian, incomprehensible to Jim. 
He gathered, however, from the landlord’s manner that he was 
making profuse apologies for his mistake, and for the first time 
since that unfortunate but excusable error ventured to look in 
the marchesa’s direction. “ We shall meet later — at luncheon, 
perhaps, shall we not ? ” he said, a little diffidently. 

The marchesa di San Vico smiled. “ Of course ! ” she replied. 
“Why not, Mr. Sinclair? I do not think that the convenances 
will condemn us to eat our meals at separate tables while we are 
in Syracuse. I am sure that the head- waiter looks as if he would 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


83 


be all that could be desired as a chaperon, though, to be sure, he 
might be a little cleaner — but it is early in the day as yet, and we 
must hope for the best ! ” With a little nod she left him and, 
escorted by the landlord and his wife, disappeared up the stair- 
case followed by her maid, who had apparently not entirely re- 
covered from her mirth provoked by the landlord’s erroneous 
conclusions as to what might be required of him as a host. Jim 
drew a long breath. “ That confounded fool of a landlord ! ” he 
exclaimed to himself — and then for the first time the humour of 
the situation struck him. After all, appearances justified the 
landlord’s folly. When a young couple land from a steamer and 
drive together to an hotel accompanied by a maid, the proprietor 
of the establishment has every right to assume that they are 
married — the maid representing, in a sense, the marriage certifi- 
cate. All the same the idiot need not have gone so deeply into 
particulars. A letto matrimonial indeed ! Just like these 
damned foreigners to be so indecent. What might be the 
exact signification of the word letto , Jim was not sure ; but the 
other word was clearly recognisable. Luckily the marchesa had 
taken the matter as a joke — the only way, perhaps, in which she 
could have taken it consistently with her own dignity, though an 
Englishwoman would probably have made things doubly awkward 
by giving vent to a burst of indignation. She had certainly dis- 
played tact — and, now Jim came to think of it, she had shown that 
she was “ straight.” A woman who wasn’t would have behaved — 
well, differently. His reflections were presently interrupted by the 
arrival of Ezio with his luggage. It appeared that the marchesa 
di San Vico had installed herself in the apartment the English Am- 
bassador was said to have occupied on the first floor of the hotel, 
and Jim discreetly chose a more modest room on the floor above. 
Ezio unpacked his things and arranged them with a neatness and 
rapidity which did credit to his capacities as a valet. The signore, 
he asked, would doubtless breakfast downstairs at midday ? It 
was barely ten o’clock now. Should he close the shutters so that 
the signore might repose for a little ? 

Jim looked out on to the glaring, dusty piazza below. It was 
decidedly too hot to begin sight-seeing so soon, and a couple of 


8 4 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


hours’ rest would not be amiss after a night passed in a chair. 
There was the whole day before him — perhaps two whole days, 
since, if the marchesa di San Vico should elect to remain at 
Syracuse a day or two, he had already made up his mind that 
he too would do so. 

“ Yes,” he replied to Ezio’s inquiry, “ you can close the 
shutters and I will remain here till twelve o’clock. By the way, 
Ezio,” he added carelessly, “ you might find out what time the 
marchesa intends to breakfast, or if she means to do so in her 
own rooms. You can ask her maid, when she returns from the 
the custom-house, and let me know later.” 

He glanced quickly at him as he spoke, but Ezio’s face pre- 
served its usual pleasant smile, and there was nothing in his 
manner to lead Jim to suppose that he regarded the commission 
as in any way remarkable. “ Sissignore ! ” 

Jim laughed. “You will teach me some Italian soon,” he 
said, as Ezio hastily apologised for answering in his own language. 
“ I wish I knew as much of it as you know of English. Don’t 
apologise — but talk Italian to me as much as you like. I want 
to pick up some of the language.” 

Jim Sinclair was one of those individuals possessing the same 
manner to those who happened to be his social inferiors as to his 
equals ; and, since there is no nation by which this gift is more 
appreciated than the Italian, he had from the first won Ezio’s sym- 
pathies and devotion. The young Sicilian shook his head doubt- 
fully. “ I learned Italian at school,” he replied, “ because I was 
obliged to learn it. We Sicilians have our own language. The 
signore should learn Italian from a continentale — such as the 
signora marchesa, for example.” 

Again Jim directed a quick glance at him, but Ezio continued 
his remarks with obvious simplicity of intention. “ The signora 
marchesa talks — oh, but the pure lingua italiana , as the Tuscans 
talk it. Decidedly, it is from her and from those who talk like 
her that the signore should learn his Italian, and not from one 
of us.” 

“Never mind,” replied Jim, laughing again, “you can give 
me lessons to begin with. As to the signora marchesa, she talks 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


85 

English a great deal more correctly than I do — for I was never 
taught it ! ” — at which observation from the lips of an Englishman 
Ezio looked considerably puzzled, and came to the conclusion 
that he had not properly understood the signore’s meaning. As 
the simplest way of extricating himself from the possibility of 
further linguistic difficulties, he inquired whether there was any- 
thing more he could do, and, on being assured by Jim that he 
wanted nothing, he left the room after saying that he would 
return before midday with the information as to at what hour, 
and where, the signora marchesa had decided to breakfast. 

Left alone, Jim proceeded to divest himself of most of his 
clothes ; after which he threw himself on the bed and presently 
found himself in a world in which Greek remains and Italian 
marchionesses were mingled in apparently inextricable confusion. 


CHAPTER IX 


“ TT seems to me,” observed the marchesa di San Vico 
X pensively, “ that looking into holes is a monotonous 
occupation. The latomic are all very well in their way, and the 
remains of the Greek edifices are no doubt extremely interesting. 
But — Dio mio — Siracusa is very hot, and the hotel is less than 
mediocre ! What do you say, my friend ? ” 

Jim Sinclair laughed. “ I quite agree,” he replied. “ We 
have done the sights, and we have duly shuddered at the fate of 
the Athenian captives left to die in what you unpoetically call 
the holes. There seems to be nothing remaining but the sun 
and the fleas. The first is too hot, and the latter are too 
active.” 

“ It is an ’orrible place ! ” returned his companion. 

“ A horrible place,” corrected Jim. 

“ A horrible place,” repeated the marchesa docilely, giving a 
terrific aspiration to her h. “ But there are, fortunately, means 
of leaving it. The railway, for instance.” 

Jim looked at her quickly. “ And of leaving me ? ” he said. 

The marchesa di San Vico dug the point of her parasol into 
the ground. “But not at Siracusa, I think,” she observed 
presently. 

“ Most certainly not ! ” exclaimed Jim. “ The place would 
be more ’orrible than ever, after your departure,” he added. 

“ Ah, now you are laughing at me for my bad pronunciation ! 
It is not kind of you.” 

It was their second day at Syracuse : and they had driven out 
by the walls of Dionysius towards sunset as far as Mongibellesi, 
the so-called Fort Euryalus, where they had left the carriage, and 
walked up the hill in the direction of the little village of Belvedere. 

A venerable olive tree, apparently growing out of a crevice in 

86 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


87 


some ancient masonry, afforded a welcome patch of shade from 
the slanting rays of the sun. The marchesa had seated herself 
at its foot, while Jim, clad in a suit of cool, grey-tinted flannels, 
leaned against a lichen-covered block of stone, and fanned him- 
self with his straw hat. Beneath them lay the dark- blue waters 
of the Ionian Sea ; while far away in the distance rose the misty 
outlines of Etna, its snow-capped summits gleaming above the 
horizon like a white cloud. Further to the eastward, the serried 
masses of the Calabrian mountains were visible, looking like the 
jagged teeth of some gigantic saw. In the near foreground the 
modern town of Syracuse glowed rose-coloured in the light of the 
sun rapidly gliding downwards to the sea ; and now and again the 
hooting of some steamer entering or leaving the port was carried 
to their ears by the faint evening breeze laden with the aromatic 
scents of innumerable flowering shrubs and herbs pouring forth 
their fragrance after the heat of the day had passed. 

But, though the marchesa di San Vico was gazing straight 
in front of her, she was not looking at the view; nor, indeed, 
was she even conscious of its existence at that moment. Jim 
Sinclair, glancing at her now and again, wondered where her 
thoughts had travelled and what might be engrossing her mind. 
Her face wore the expression of one engaged in wrestling with 
some problem and vainly seeking its satisfactory solution. For 
two days Jim had been perpetually in her society, and it seemed 
to him as though he must have surely known her for a much 
longer period. He was bound to confess to himself, however, 
that notwithstanding every opportunity for the development of 
some more tender sentiment than mere friendship, the marchesa 
had never shown the least sign of any desire to overstep friend- 
ship’s limits even by a hair’s-breadth. From the commencement 
of the acquaintance made by chance on board the Rubbattino 
steamer until that afternoon she had been bon camarade , natural, 
frankly diverted by a novel situation which she found all the 
more diverting because of its glaring unconventionality and total 
disregard of the appearances. In point of fact this obvious 
determination on his companion’s part to look at a situation 
which was, to say the least of it, somewhat of a daring nature in 


88 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


the light or an amusing and transitory episode in her travels had 
gradually aroused in Jim a feeling of irritation for which he 
accounted to himself in every way but the true one. Yet, and 
inconsistently enough, perhaps, the marchesa’s attitude pleased, 
even if it annoyed him. He regarded it as one more proof that 
there was a woman who had no idea of seeking to compromise 
him, and who certainly would not care to compromise herself. 
If it amused her to have a little flutter — as he expressed it — on 
her way home from her travels, and she had done him the honour 
of believing him to be a suitable person to share it, so much the 
better. It was a pleasant way of spending a portion of his 
fortnight’s leave, which might otherwise have proved somewhat 
dull. 

The worst of it was that she was altogether too attractive, and 
this perplexing attitude she had assumed, which more resembled 
that of a boy out on an unauthorised lark than anything else Jim 
could think of, did not make her less so. It was a fault on the 
right side, no doubt ; but there were moments when he felt that 
the marchesa di San Vico’s attractiveness might cause him to 
make a fool of himself, and bring her “flutter” and his own to 
an abrupt and most undesirable termination. Young women 
possessed of such eyes, and of so many attractions generally, had 
no business to pose as boys out on a lark ; and if they did so, 
the lark should be carried out under other scenic and climatic 
conditions, in a snow-storm at Cuthbertsheugh, for instance, but 
decidedly not in the voluptuous surroundings of a Sicilian May. 
It was scarcely fair on the genuine male who wore trousers. 

The silence between Jim and his companion had lasted for 
some minutes before the marchesa turned from her abstracted 
gaze over the sea. “And where, my friend, do you propose to 
go when you leave Siracusa ? ” she asked suddenly. 

Jim shrugged his shoulders. “ Anywhere ! ” he replied, “ I 
shall certainly not stay on here,” he added. “It would be 
beastly ! ” 

“ What a word ! Is that good English ? ” 

“ Better than ’orrible,” returned Jim drily. 

The marchesa laughed. “Very well,” she said, “ I shall add 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


89 

it to my vocabulary. But seriously, Mr. Sinclair, what are you 
going to do when you leave here? You will find Palermo very 
hot — it is very hot everywhere in Sicily at this season — and you 
have, let me see, nearly ten days before you have to begin your 
return journey to Malta, have you not ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

The marchesa di San Vico gave another vigorous poke at the 
ground with the end of her parasol. “ You are — how do you say? — 
brief,” she returned a little impatiently. “ I ask you what you 
will do. You will not, I conclude, visit more Greek temples with 
a guide-book and a white umbrella, like the German we passed 
just now.” 

“ I think not ! I might, perhaps, get as far as Naples, or even 
Rome.” 

“ Ah, not Rome ; do not go to Rome ! ” 

Jim looked at her, surprised at the sudden change in her 
voice. 

“ Why not ? ” he asked. “ I have never seen it, and I should 
have time to spend a couple of days or even perhaps three there. 
Do you not have to pass it yourself on your way to Tuscany, 
marchesa ? ” 

“ Yes — no ; I am not obliged to pass through Rome. There 
is another route by Naples and Benevento, and so up through 
the Romagna to Florence. It is longer, but one avoids Rome.” 

“ Do you dislike the place? ” 

“If I dislike it! I detest it. That is to say, I detest 
the things with which it is associated in my mind. This is 
not the fault of Rome — certainly not ! It is the fault, well, of 
circumstances.” 

“ I understand,” said Jim. 

The marchesa di San Vico looked at him inquiringly for a 
moment. Then she smiled, rather a sad smile. 

“ No, my friend,” she replied quietly, “ you do not understand 
at all. No man, I think, could understand. And yet, I do not 
know — ” and she paused. 

“ Perhaps,” Jim observed, “ you have never taken the trouble 
to try.” The words escaped him almost unconsciously, and for 


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ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


an instant he feared lest the quick glance of surprise that she 
flashed at him betokened some resentment at the remark. 

“ No,” she said simply, “ you are quite right. I have never 
taken the trouble to try. It is fortunate for me, perhaps, that I 
have not.” 

“ And also possibly for the man ! ” 

“ Thank you, Mr. Sinclair ! That is a charming sentiment, 
but a little enigmatic — no ? ” 

“ I mean — ” began Jim hurriedly, and then he stopped abruptly. 

“Yes?” 

“ I think you must know very well what I mean,” he con- 
tinued. “ Anyhow, I am not going to risk a snub by telling you.” 

“ What is that — snub ? ” 

“ A snub ? Oh, a very unpleasant thing. A — well, a sort of 
putting a fellow in his proper place, you know.” 

“ I understand. Something beastly.” 

Jim burst out laughing. “ Under the present circumstances, 
yes ; decidedly,” he said. 

“And since when, pray, do I snub you? Never, I think. 
Do you suppose that I have not already recognised that you are 
not one of those people who require putting in their proper place ? 
What a delightful language is your English ! Here is a phrase 
consisting of seven words which you express in one word of four 
letters. It is certainly very ingenious. But to return to what we 
were talking about. Our little escapade is, I fear, nearly at an 
end, since I must continue my journey northward ; and you, I am 
still waiting to hear what you are going to do.” 

Jim hesitated. “ Certainly,” he said, “ it would hardly be 
worth while to go to Rome only for a day or two.” 

“ But you would have more than a day or two were you to go 
there direct to-morrow.” 

“ To-morrow? ” There was more than a touch of protest in 
Jim’s voice. 

“ But certainly, to-morrow. Why not ? Have you not 
yourself told me that there was nothing at Siracusa but sun and 
fleas ? It was not very complimentary to me, but that does not 
matter.” 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


9i 


“ I said nothing of the kind ! ” returned Jim indignantly. 
“I said that nothing would induce me to stay on here after you 
had left. But why should you leave to-morrow? I beg your 
pardon,” he added hastily. “I did not mean to be rude. Of 
course you have your own plans to consider, and it is probably 
not convenient to you to waste your time in a place like this when 
you have your own villa near Florence.” 

“To waste my time,” repeated the marchesa, smiling. “Ah, 
Mr. Sinclair, now you are uncomplimentary to yourself. No ! But 
you forget that there are — I never know what to call them in 
English — les convenances to be considered.” 

“I think they are generally alluded to as ‘Mrs. Grundy,’” 
observed Jim a little impatiently. 

“ Is that so ? I was very proud of my English until I met 
you. But now it seems that I have by no means mastered your 
idioms. Well, does it not strike you that we have permitted 
ourselves to ignore Mrs. — Mrs. ” 

“ A tiresome old woman ! ” interrupted Jim. “ For Heaven’s 
sake, leave her in England. I don’t believe she has ever 
been out of it; so please, marchesa, do not transport her to 
Sicily!” 

“ Oh, but she has ! she travels everywhere. And, as I say, 
we have permitted ourselves to ignore her quite long enough — at 
any rate in Siracusa. All the same, it has been very pleasant. I 
do not know when I have enjoyed myself so much. I do not 
often have an opportunity of enjoying myself in my life.” 

“ If that is so,” Jim said in a low voice, “why should we put 
an end to what you call our little escapade before my colonel and 
your Mrs. Grundy absolutely compel us to do so ? ” 

The marchesa di San Vico looked at him for a moment 
without speaking. Then she suddenly laughed gaily, and clapped 
her hands together, almost as a child promised an extra holiday 
might have done. 

“Why should we?” she exclaimed. “You are right, my 
friend — why should we ? It is folly to bring pleasant things to 
an end unnecessarily — and friendship is a pleasant thing, is it not ? 
Besides, who knows when we shall meet again ? never, probably 


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— since, after we part, you will go back to your own life and I to 
mine — such as it is. This is merely a little interlude — an inter- 
mezzo. Afterwards the play will proceed as usual. Yes; we 
will prolong the intermezzo by a few bars, if you like — and we 
will be as careful as we can not to irritate Mrs. — the woman 
with the ugly name ! ” 

“Then — you will not leave Syracuse to-morrow?” Jim asked 
quickly. 

“ But of course I shall leave it to-morrow ! What should we 
do with ourselves here for another twenty-four hours ? Besides, 
Siracusa is not a place in which anybody remains for more 
than a day or two. Would you cause a reincarnation of your 
Mrs. — bravo, I have it now ! — Grundy, in the hotel-keeper’s 
wife ? ” 

“ Certainly not ! ” laughed Jim ; “ but there will be other 
hotel-keepers’ wives into whom she equally might enter.” 

“ No, there will not. At least, they will concern you, perhaps, 
but not me. When I leave Siracusa I intend to go direct to my 
own house. I think I have explained to you that it is near Florence 
— and it is really very cool and pleasant there until quite late in 
June. I should like you to see it — though you must not expect 
anything on a grand scale, such as I believe many of your English 
country-houses are.” 

Jim gazed at her with considerable astonishment. He had 
certainly not expected that the marchesa di San Vico would 
invite him to stay in her own house, however amused she might 
be by the idea of prolonging their few days of sight-seeing together 
in places where it was extremely unlikely that she would meet any 
acquaintance who might wonder why she was in the company of 
a young Englishman. 

“ It would be delightful,” he said hesitatingly ; “ and I should 
like to come immensely, but ” 

“ But — what ? ” 

“How about Mrs. Grundy? I conclude that she rules in 
Florence as she does elsewhere.” 

The marchesa di San Vico looked at him with a curious 
intentness. 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


93 


u Her rule is not very severe in Florence,” she replied with a 
smile. “If it were so, she would soon cause a revolution, I 
think. Are you so afraid of her, Mr. Sinclair ? ” 

There was a faint suspicion of sarcasm in her tone which at 
once aroused Jim’s resentment — if so strong a term could be 
applied to a feeling with which was mingled a strange glow of 
satisfaction. 

“ I was not thinking of myself,” he returned quickly, “ but of 
you. What would it matter if people said — oh, well you know 
the sort of thing I mean,” — and at this point, feeling himself to 
be getting into unforeseen difficulties, he floundered hopelessly 
and blushed all over his handsome face. “ I mean,” he continued, 
recovering himself, “ that in your country I am merely an unknown 
foreigner, like thousands of other English tourists who visit it. 
But with you it is different. You, I suppose, are a great lady in 
Italy, and well known. I should be a cad to allow you, or any 
other woman who has shown the confidence in me that you have, 
to compromise yourself on my account.” He spoke hurriedly, 
as though almost ashamed of his words, and evidently nervous as 
to how they would be received by his companion. 

The marchesa di San Vico never took her eyes off his face as 
he was speaking. They glowed with a soft, tender light of which 
he was probably wholly unconscious, and there was something of 
sadness in them, too ; and of the pain of some vain regret. 

“ Dio mio ! ” she murmured to herself in Italian ; “ how 
different men are! You are very chivalrous,” she continued 
aloud, and there was no longer any trace of sarcasm in her voice, 
but rather a note of wonder. “ I think you Englishmen are more 
chivalrous to women than our men are apt to be.” 

“ Then you are not angry with me for what I have just said ? ” 
asked Jim. “ I dare say I put it rather crudely — I always do 
make an ass of myself when I try to put my ideas on certain sub- 
jects into words ! I am glad you understand — and that you are 
not angry with me.” 

“Angry! Ah, no! Why should I be angry? On the con- 
trary, I knew you would say what you did say — or something 
equivalent to it. I think I should have felt angry — and I am 


94 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


sure I should have felt disappointed — if you had raised no objec- 
tion to what you believed I was suggesting to you.” 

The marchesa’s concluding words fell as a decided chill on 
Jim’s kindling ardour. 

“ Then you were not ? ” 

“Inviting you to stay with me at San Vico?” she interrupted 
him. “ Certainly not, my friend ! but I allowed you to think 
that I was being so indiscreet, in order to hear what you would 
say to me. It was mean of me, I confess ; but all the same I 
did it. No — you could not stay with me at San Vico ; that 
would be — well, un peu trop fort , would it not? I live alone 
when I am there, and have not even a guard-dog — no, sheep- 
dog, as Thackeray calls it, does he not? — in the shape of a 
female companion. My establishment consists of a highly re- 
spectable old couple — the wife, I must tell you, is really an 
admirable cook — who look after the house and me at the same 
time ; their niece who is my maid — not this woman, she leaves 
me at Naples — and one or two gardeners. San Vico is nearly 
twelve kilometres from Florence ; but, all the same, all Florence 
would very soon know that a young and — and extremely good- 
looking — there, I have said it ! — Englishman was staying in the 
villa with me.” 

“Exactly!” Jim replied. “That is what I meant; but I 
couldn’t put it properly.” 

His companion laughed. “Yes?” she remarked; “I did 
not think you were so vain ! ” 

“You know very well that whatever I meant, it was not 
that!” exclaimed Jim, hot and reproachful. “I quite under- 
stand,” he added ; “ of course, I cannot come to San Vico. And 
you say that you are going direct to San Vico to-morrow, so 
of course I understand that it is a case of good-bye when 
to-morrow comes. I think it was not kind of you to have 
made me fool enough to think for a moment that it might be 
otherwise — that the good-bye might be delayed.” 

He spoke almost petulantly, with lowered brows ; and if 
Jim could look sulky, he was very near to looking it at that 
particular moment. 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


95 


The marchesa di San Vico, watching him, laughed softly. 
For a few seconds she seemed to be in no hurry to soothe his 
petulance by offering him any explanation of her want of con- 
sideration for his feelings. She looked at him, much as a cat 
looks at the mouse with which it is playing, with the difference 
that her eyes shone with a very different expression from that 
of the cat’s when engaged in a similar diversion. 

“ But of course,” she said presently, “ you can come to 
San Vico, that is to say, if you wish to come there. Why 
not? You cannot, unfortunately, stay there; and I cannot, 
unfortunately, ask you to do so.” 

“But I thought we agreed that it was an impossibility? Do 
you not say yourself that I cannot come, and that you cannot 
ask me ? ” 

“ I put in the word ‘ unfortunately,’ which you seem carefully 
to leave out,” said the marchesa, in her turn becoming a little 
petulant. “ I quite understand that you think it not worth your 
while to take so long a journey as from here to Florence, merely 
for the sake of spending a few days at San Vico. Otherwise, I 
should have been charmed to be your hostess whenever you 
cared to drive out from Florence and pass the day there. It 
is much cooler up in the hills than in the city, and the drive 
back to your hotel after dining at the villa would certainly not 
be disagreeable. But Florence is nearly two days’ journey from 
here ; and you, of course, are limited as to time.” 

Jim Sinclair’s brow cleared suddenly, and he looked at her 
with his accustomed bright, sunny smile. Then he made a 
rapid calculation. 

“Let me see,” he said. “Two days to get from here to 
Florence, two days to get back here, and one night to get from 
here to Malta; that makes four days, and on the morning of 
the fifth day I should be back on that infernal island. Allowing 
six clear days in case of some breakdown on the way — yes, 
I could have five days at Florence, supposing we start to-morrow. 
I might even telegraph to ask for an extension of two or three 
days.” 

“ On what grounds ? ” asked the marchesa di San Vico drily. 


g6 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


Jim laughed merrily. “ Urgent private affairs ! ” he replied. 

The marchesa’s face became suddenly grave. “No,” she 
exclaimed abruptly. “ It would be folly — a midsummer night’s 
dream ! Let us agree to go our different ways to-morrow — and 
— and to forget each other. It has been very agreeable — our 
little escapade — no? Let us wake up from our dream, before 
it becomes — a nightmare ! Forgive me, my friend ; I was 
wrong to make such foolish suggestions ; but — but ” 

She paused suddenly, and looked away from him across 
the sea to where a rosy flush marked the snow-clad crests of 
Etna, coloured by the rays of the setting sun. 

“ But I won’t agree ! ” exclaimed Jim energetically ; “ that is to 
say,” he added, “ unless you tell me I must. I will telegraph this 
evening to Malta ; and even if I can’t get an extension, I shall 
still have my five days at Florence. So that is settled.” 

“ It is not settled at all ! ” returned his companion, trying 
with but indifferent success to assume an air of determination. 
It was curious, she thought, that this display of independence 
and self-assertion on the part of a hitherto docile young man 
should send a thrill of satisfaction coursing through her blood. 
“ It is not settled at all,” she repeated more firmly, “and I will 
tell you why. Just now you spoke of your fear of compromising 
me ; and I told you that you were chivalrous. A woman cannot 
be chivalrous, I suppose ; but she may be honourable — honour- 
able to a man whom — to whom she does not wish to bring any 
harm. I am going to tell you a strange thing,” she continued, 
and a bitter ring sounded in her voice as she spoke. “ You can- 
not compromise me ; for the very simple reason that there is not 
a living soul in this world who cares what I do, or what happens 
to me. That is odd, is it not ? but it is true. So, being true, 
why should I not do as I choose ? I have nobody to answer 
to for my actions except myself — in this world at all events — 
and if it be true that in the next world there are powers who 
know or care what we do in this — well — ” and she shrugged her 
shoulders. 

“ It is impossible ! ” said Jim in a low voice. “ You — what 
you are ! Besides, you contradict yourself. Have you not 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


97 


explained how you could not ask me to stay in your house? 
If things were as you say, what could it signify whom you 
received at San Vico ? Oh, do not think that I am attempting 
to persuade you to allow me to be your guest there, or that I 
am not sure that you mean what you say ! You may think 
that what you say is true ; but I tell you that such a thing 
is impossible in the case of anybody like you, and that you are 
deceiving yourself.” 

The marchesa di San Vico smiled, and her voice had lost its 
bitter tone as she answered him. 

“ As I have told you before,” she said, “ you are chivalrous. 
But have you ever reflected that you know nothing whatever about 
me, except what I have chosen to tell you, which after all, is 
very little ? ” 

Jim was silent for a moment. He had made this reflection, 
and that not once but many times in the course of the last two 
or three days. 

“ If it comes to that,” he said bluntly, “ you do not know 
much more about me.” 

“ Do not be so sure of that, my friend. I think I know as 
much about you as I want to know, and unless I am much mis- 
taken in you, there is no more in your life as yet than what can 
be read in your face. It is a face which writes its owner’s story 
and character very legibly,” she added. 

Jim looked into her eyes. “ And yours ? ” he asked. “ Is 
yours not legible also ? ” 

“ I hope not,” returned the marchesa hastily, “ I have spent 
several years of my life in trying that it should not be so. No, 
you know nothing about me, except my name.” 

“ I do not even know that,” observed Jim, smiling. 

“ How ? ah, I understand. I know yours because, as I told 
you, I looked at your luggage on the steamer. James, is it not? 
That is prettier than our Italian Giacomo, I think. I have half-a- 
dozen names, all of them saints’ names, of course, except one, 
which I use because it is not a saint’s name, at least not of our 
calendar, though we have its equivalent. I call myself Sonia, 
after my grandmother, who was Russian.” 

7 


9 3 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


“ Sonia ? ” 

“It is ugly when you pronounce it like that. “The ‘ s* 
should be very soft like a ‘ z,’ and the ‘o’ very broad.” 

“ I will practise it,” said Jim humbly. 

“When you return to Malta. But let us be serious. You, 
as I say, know absolutely nothing about me. I might be an 
adventuress — anything. And yet you are ready to accompany 
me to Florence. Why ? ” 

“ It appears to me that the answer is very simple,” returned 
Jim boldly. “ Because you are not unwilling that I should 
do so.” 

The marchesa was silenced. Perhaps it was not altogether 
the reply she had expected. 

“Do you know, Mr. Sinclair,” she said presently, “that you 
are a very annoying person ? I want to be serious, and you turn 
everything I say into ridicule. You will not even believe me when 
I tell you that I am answerable to nobody in this world for what 
I may choose to do, or not to do. You said just now that I was 
contradicting myself by saying such a thing, and at the same time 
telling you that for appearance’ sake you could not be my guest 
at San Vico. It is no contradiction. I am answerable for my 
actions to no individual ; but when I say that, I mean it in the 
moral sense, in the sense of honour. We have all of us a certain 
responsibility to the world. But I think that this responsibility 
does not amount to more than that the world expects that those 
who happen to be known to it shall not make fools of themselves 
— in public, at all events. That is why I cannot ask you to stay 
at San Vico.” 

Jim stared at her in silence, and the marchesa evidently read 
perplexity in his face. He was, indeed, perplexed. The cynicism 
of her observation was apparent even to his absolutely uncynical 
mind. It shocked him ; but at the same time some intuition 
told him that the cynicism did not ring true. It was not the 
genuine woman who was saying these things, but a woman who 
had assumed a part which was foreign to her real nature. Why 
she should assume it he could not guess, but, young as he was, 
he had seen enough of life to be aware that cynicism and bitter- 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


99 

ness are rarely, if ever, natural to humanity, and that the disillusions 
of life itself are generally responsible for their creation. 

“ You do not understand me,” the marchesa continued, as he 
did not speak. “ After all,” she added, as if to herself, “ how 
should you ? ” 

“ I do understand,” Jim exclaimed. “ I understand that it is 
not you who think these things, but something that is not you 
which makes you say them. That is badly expressed, I know, 
but it is what I mean. I think — forgive me if I am impertinent, 
I do not mean to be so — that somebody must have behaved 
very badly to you in your life, and that you pretend to be cynical 
in order to conceal your own feelings. It is impossible, incredible, 
that you should have nobody in the world who cares what you 
do. At least there must be one person who has the right to care.” 

The marchesa started as though he had dealt her some sudden 
blow. 

“What do you mean?” she asked quickly. “ I tell you that 
there is nobody. Once, perhaps, there was somebody who cared, 
but it was long ago, and that person has passed out of my life.” 

“ I understand,” said Jim sympathetically. “ Do forgive me, 
marchesa, I did not mean to allude to anything that might give 
you pain.” 

She gave him a glance of astonishment. “ You understand ! ” 
she exclaimed. “ But that is absurd, impossible. How should 
you understand, you who three days ago did not know of my 
existence? I am speaking of things which happened years back 
in my life, things I do not wish ever again to mention, or even to 
think of, were it only possible to forget them. In God’s name, 
what can you mean by telling me that you understand ? ” 

“Forgive me,” Jim repeated, “I thought, of course, that you 
were alluding to your husband. It was he I mean’t when I said 
that there must be one person in the world who had a right to 
care.” 

He was by no means prepared for the effect his words produced 
on his companion. She started up from the spot where she had 
been sitting under the olive-tree and confronted him with a look 
on her face so full of bitter and passionate contempt that Jim 


IOO 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


was transfixed with amazement, while her eyes seemed literally to 
blaze with scorn and indignation. 

“ My husband ! ” she exclaimed. “ So far as I am concerned 
such an individual does not exist. It is true,” and she laughed, 
a hard, bitter laugh, “ that I was married to an animal, yes, an 
animal, against my consent ; and because of a promise extorted 
from me when I was an ignorant girl, and a few hypocritical words 
mumbled over me in Latin by a priest, legalised by a few strokes 
of a pen in the presence of an official, the world pretends to 
consider me bound body and soul to a man I loathe and despise, 
whose very name is so hateful to me that, as I have already told 
you, I have refused to bear it. Listen, Mr. Sinclair. The world 
and the priests consider me bound to this man they call my 
husband, that is true. But do you suppose that my whole soul, 
yes, and my whole body, do not revolt against bonds which I 
know to be forged from unimaginable vileness and riveted by 
lies ? And do you not suppose that I would not have long ago 
broken loose from those bonds had it not been because I 
feared to forge for myself others ? Morally, I have broken loose 
from them for ever, the man you call my husband dare not come 
near me. I have been able to resist all temptation to do so, 
physically, hitherto. No, do not interrupt me, but again, listen. 
I will never tolerate any allusion to that animal, for I will not 
calumniate the sex to which you belong by calling him a man, 
from your lips; from the lips of others, perhaps, but not from 
yours. If our friendship is — is to go further — to last for a little 
longer yet before we go our different ways again in life, swear to 
me that you will never seek to know me by any other name than 
that which I have the legal right to call myself, that of my title of 
San Vico, and that you will never again allude directly or indirectly 
to the contemptible cur whom the priests and the pharisees call 
my husband. My husband ! ” 

She uttered the last two words in a tone of cutting irony, and 
then her voice suddenly trembled and broke into an outburst 
of passionate sobs. In a moment Jim was by her side, and had 
caught both her hands in his own, kissing them madly as he 
attempted to remove them gently from her face. 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


IOI 


“ Swear it ? ” he exclaimed ; “I will swear that or anything 
else you tell me to swear, if by doing so I can bring into your 
life only a few hours of happiness ! I ask nothing — want to 
know nothing — and as you have trusted me, so will I trust you. 
Sonia, speak to me ! ” 

For a moment she stood trembling. Jim had dropped her 
hands now, and his arms were round her, supporting her swaying 
form. Suddenly she wrenched herself free from him, but her 
eyes looked into his with a blaze of passionate tenderness in their 
depths. 

“ A few hours ot happiness,” she murmured as if to herself ; 

“ well, why not, since you wish it ” 

“ And you ; do you, too, not wish it, Sonia ? ” 

“ I ! ah, my God ! Always I wondered whether one day I 
should find another human being to whom I could give, if only 
for one hour, all I have to give — all that no man has ever yet 
had from me. And when I saw you, and had talked for a while 
with you, I knew then that my day of happiness had come to me. 
And we will take it, will we not ? ” 

The tears had dried on her cheeks now, and she laughed, a 
silvery laugh of triumph. “ From now until the moment when 
we must part we will think of nothing but our happiness, will we 
not ? ” she continued, “ and you wall help me to forget, and to 
live. Afterwards there will be plenty of time to. think of other 
things — dead things ; but for the moment I will live — I will taste 
of the deepest joys life can give, and afterwards nothing will 
matter any more, for I shall say to myself — I have lived ! do you 
understand? You will have many other joys in your life, but 
this one alone will be mine — ours — and if you forget me, as you 
must forget me, what matter? I shall have lived — lived — and 
nothing will ever be able to rob me of what you will have given 
me.” 

The sun had sunk into the western sea, leaving a deep 
crimson glow behind it, and already the distant vision of Etna 
had faded into the gathering hazes of the fast-approaching 
Southern night. Large bats began to make their appearance 
from out of the blocks of ruined masonry and rocky caves above 


102 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


the road to Belvedere, and flitted restlessly to and fro, awaiting 
the coming forth of the night insects ; while now and again the 
mournful cry of the little grey owls haunting the scenes of past 
magnificence, of Athenian despair and Sicilian vengeance, broke 
the stillness, as the twilight gradually but swiftly closed in over 
land and sea. The scent of bays, cystus, myrtle, wild fig, and 
mastic, grew ever sweeter and more aromatic as the sun-parched 
soil became cooler and the dew began to rise, and yet Jim and 
his companion lingered, heedless of the carriage which was 
awaiting their return at Fort Euryalus, and of the fact that they 
had ordered dinner at their hotel to be ready for them at half- 
past eight. Had it not been for the unwelcome appearance of a 
group of peasants returning from their work to the neighbouring 
village, it is probable that neither the marchesa di San Vico nor 
Jim would have realised that night was rapidly overtaking them. 
Indeed, when they finally reached the hotel, they found Ezio 
anxiously looking out for them, fearing, as he said, lest they had 
met with some disgrazia during their expedition. As to the dinner, 
the fact that it was nearly half-past nine before they sat down to 
it seemed but slightly to have affected its quality, notwithstand- 
ing the head-waiter’s despairing assurance that it was absolutely 
ruined as a dinner by their excellencies’ delay. Their excellencies, 
it may be added, ate and drank but little — a misfortune for which 
the waiter, little knowing how truly he spoke, subsequently 
informed the indignant cook that they had nobody but themselves 
to blame. 


CHAPTER X 


T HE journey from Syracuse to the City of Flowers in the 
Val d’Arno is, as everbody knows, a lengthy undertaking, 
whether performed by sea as far as Naples, or by land from 
Reggio Calabria. In order not to have to spend another thirty- 
six hours in Syracuse waiting for a steamer which would take 
them to Messina and Naples, the marchesa di San Vico, to 
whom Jim Sinclair left the decision of the matter, elected to go 
by sea to the first- named town, and, after crossing the Straits to 
Reggio, to travel direct to Florence by rail. 

Jim had duly sent his telegram to his colonel asking that his 
fortnight’s leave might be extended, and requesting that a reply 
might be telegraphed to him at the hotel in Florence which the 
marchesa had recommended as being the best in a city where all 
are indifferent and the great majority bad. He had not much 
hope that the extension would be granted. If matters in the 
East continued to improve, his regiment would no doubt be 
allowed to proceed to England ; while, on the other hand, should 
they become more complicated, all leave would, of course, be 
stopped. In any case, Jim sincerely trusted that things would 
remain as they were at least for another fortnight, after which 
time the Great Power supposed to be blowing up the coals 
might, as he expressed it, do what it damned pleased, as any- 
thing would be preferable to being kept indefinitely at Malta. 

The railway journey from Reggio to Rome had been un- 
eventful ; but all the same, both travellers had enjoyed it. At 
Naples, where they arrived late at night, the marchesa’s maid left 
them, after having established her in a sleeping compartment on 
the train which was to leave for Rome at midnight. Jim was 
heartily glad to see the last of the woman. He had always 

wondered whether she and Ezio had drawn their own conclusions 

103 


ie>4 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


from this sudden determination on his part to go as far afield as 
Florence instead of confining himself to Sicily as he had told 
Ezio it was his intention to do. As to Ezio, he had only 
expressed delight when Jim had announced to him that Florence 
and not Palermo was to be their destination. Although pro- 
fessing all the Sicilian contempt for “il continente,” Ezio, for 
reasons of his own concerning which Jim did not seek to force 
his confidence, was evidently relieved at not being obliged to 
spend more time than necessary in his native island. Whatever 
he may have thought as to his employer’s reasons for thus altering 
the plans which he had formed at Malta, plans which he himself 
had assisted in elaborating with a view to showing his padrone as 
much of Sicily as was possible to see in so limited a space of 
time, he had received the notice of their abandonment with a 
laudable discretion, and had confined himself to observing that 
Florence would certainly be much cooler than Palermo — an 
observation which, if justified by the latitudinal difference between 
the two cities, was nevertheless entirely incorrect. Jim Sinclair, 
however, did not trouble himself very much as to what Ezio 
might or might not think. When he was spending his time out 
at San Vico, Ezio would be amusing himself in his own way in 
Florence and could make no mischief : whereas the Neapolitan 
maid, had she accompanied the marchesa to San Vico, might 
have made a good deal of mischief by informing the household 
there of the suspicious fact that its padrona had only met her 
English guest for the first time a few days before on board a 
steamer. 

The marchesa di San Vico appeared to be as good a traveller 
on land as she was by sea ; and the delays and unpunctuality of 
her native express trains, humorously styled “ diretti,” seemed to 
affect her equanimity but little. In fact, it was evident that she 
was determined to enjoy every hour she and her companion 
might have to spend in each other’s society. She was still, as 
Jim laughingly told her, the schoolboy who had broken out of 
bounds and was bent upon having a good time while his insub- 
ordination lasted. There was a certain difference in her manner, 
however, which her comrade in mischief was quick to perceive, 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


i°5 

and which he could not pretend to misunderstand. The easy, 
somewhat cynical camaraderie which in the first instance had 
attracted him, and had excited in him a desire to improve his 
chance acquaintanceship had given place to a pleading tender- 
ness into which the schoolboy element entered not at all. 

It was only on the arrival of their train at the Roman terminus, 
when the marchesa descended from her sleeping compartment, 
that Jim, who was already waiting for her on the platform, 
observed a decided uneasiness in her manner. She scanned the 
faces of the people in the station attentively, and seemed to be 
nervous lest at any moment she might recognise one that was un- 
welcome to her. Nothing, however, of an inconvenient nature 
occurred. 

They passed the time which had to elapse before the departure 
of the “ direttissimo ” for Florence and Milan in breakfasting at 
the station restaurant, and Sonia recovered her usual good spirits 
and seemed to be not a little relieved when the train eventually 
started and they left Rome behind them. Comparatively few 
people were travelling that morning, and they were fortunate 
enough to secure a coupe to themselves. As they sped north- 
ward, Sonia pointed out to her companion various places of 
interest along a route of which she appeared to know every mile. 
The train bore them across the Roman Campagna, at that season 
of the year a smiling garden of wild-flowers, and at all others a 
desolate wilderness over which broods the spirit of melancholy 
unutterable, its monotony only broken by scattered tombs and 
the wreckage of past greatness, and relieved by the glorious effects 
of light and atmosphere which by the magic touch of Nature turn 
the unattractive and forbidding waste into a rolling picture of 
marvellous beauty. Presently, as the train left the Campagna 
behind it, the wooded valleys of the Sabine mountains unfolded 
themselves, with their ruined fortresses standing out against the 
tender green of the chestnut and oak trees ; then Orvieto, barely 
visible on the summit of its frowning cliff; grim Cortona, rising 
from the midst of its Etruscan necropolis; historic Trasimene, 
the blue waters of its lake stretching away to melt into the deeper 
blue of the Umbrian hills encircling them ; and then, after a 


io6 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


while, the mightier Apennines, and the gradual descent through 
vineyards and rose-mantled gardens, through olive groves and 
stately avenues of cypress leading to ancient country-seats of 
Medici, Ridolfi, Strozzi, and half a score of other Florentine 
houses famous in the annals of the Middle Ages, into the lovely 
Valley of the Arno. 

The brown “cupolone” of Santa Maria del Fiore and the 
arrow-like tower of the Palazzo Vecchio were already in sight, and 
the train was passing beneath the smiling heights of Fiesole, w r hen 
Jim Sinclair began to grumble. 

It was all very well, he complained, but he would have to pass 
the remainder of the afternoon and the whole of the evening in a 
tiresome hotel while Sonia — he had practised the pronunciation 
of the word to perfection — drove off to San Vico. It was an 
altogether absurd arrangement, and one by which many hours of 
their limited time together would be wasted. 

Sonia shrugged her shoulders. “ Remember Mrs. Grundy ! ” 
she said. “ How glad I am that I have learned her name ! I 
told you, I think, that in Florence she is obliged to shut her eyes 
to many little departures from her rules, but even in Florence she 
is compelled to draw the line somewhere ! No, my dear friend, 
you really must be sensible. To-morrow morning you will tell 
the people at your hotel that you want a carriage to take you out 
to San Vico, and if you start about half-past ten you will be with 
me by midday. It is up-hill the whole way. You will drive up 
to the villa, you will ring the bell, and you will ask the old 
servant who, in course of time, will answer it if you ring often 
enough, if the signora marchesa receives. He will probably look 
at you very suspiciously, and he will certainly not understand a 
word of your efforts to speak Italian, but that does not matter. 
His natural intelligence will tell him that you want to see me, 
and he will allow you to sit down in the hall while he brings me 
your card. Afterwards, your carriage will be dismissed, with 
instructions to the driver to return for you in the evening ” 

“ Late in the evening ! ” 

“ Do not interrupt me ! Not later than half-past nine. You seem 
to be very sure that your society will be welcome for so many hours !” 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


107 


Jim laughed. “ I am,” he replied. 

At this moment the official in charge of the carriage in which 
they were travelling was tactless enough to appear at the door of 
their compartment and call out “ Signori, siamo a Firenze ! ” 

“What does he say?” asked Jim, a little startled, though 
doing his best to look completely unconcerned. 

“ He is informing us that we have arrived at Florence,” said 
the marchesa drily. 

“ Then he must be an idiot ! We could grasp that fact for 
ourselves, without his poking his nose in here, just as ” 

“Just as you were going to be very much the reverse of 
sensible, forgetting that we are in a train. If seems to me that it 
is you who are the idiot, and not that poor conductor, who, after 
all, was only doing his duty. No — I tell you — and again, no! 
We are just coming into the station. Now, I suppose, you will 
go to your hotel. But, instead of sitting in your room and sulk- 
ing, I should advise you to walk about Florence — to the Duomo, 
the Piazza della Signoria, the Lungarno — anywhere, in short, you 
please. Perhaps, too, you will find a satisfactory answer to your 
telegram awaiting you — who knows ? ” 

Jim sighed. “ Let us hope so,” he said. “ Five days are such 
a very short time ! That beastly hotel ! it seems to me that we 
should have been much — well, much more independent, if we 
had remained at Syracuse. If I am to be turned out of San 
Vico at half-past nine every evening ” 

“ It only takes a little over three quarters of an hour to drive 
to Florence from San Vico,” observed the marchesa demurely. 
“ It is all down-hill, you know.” 

“ I wasn’t thinking of the drive.” 

“ No ? Well, never mind ! So, we have arrived. I shall find 
a carriage here to meet me, and my heavy luggage must remain 
till later in the evening Yes — of course you can see me to the 
carriage, if you wish, and in the meantime your servant will be 
getting your things.” 

Followed by a porter carrying the marchesa’s smaller articles, 
they passed quickly out of the station and found a carriage, the 
driver of which instantly recognised Jim’s companion. “As you 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


108 

see,” she said with a smile, “ my carriage is a hired one. I do 
not keep horses now; otherwise, I should have sent them to 
bring you to San Vico. To-morrow, then ! I breakfast at twelve 
o’clock, and if you leave your hotel at half-past ten you will be in 
ample time.’’ 

A minute or two more, and Jim Sinclair was left standing out- 
side the station watching the carriage as it drove away. He 
would have continued, perhaps, to stand there even after it had 
disappeared, had it not been for Ezio’s voice at his side inter- 
rupting his meditations by informing him that in a few minutes 
his luggage would be placed on the omnibus of his hotel. In the 
meantime the marchesa di San Vico, alone in her carriage, was so 
absorbed in her own thoughts that she looked vacantly at the 
familiar objects in the streets and broad, dusty viali through 
which she had to pass before leaving the city behind her and 
beginning the long and steep ascent leading to San Domenico 
and Fiesole, from which last place San Vico was some five kilo- 
metres distant — a little hamlet lying sequestered on the wooded 
spurs of the hills behind the castle of Vincigliate, its brown 
cottages clustering round the walls of the gardens belonging to 
the old medieval villa which rose in dignified seclusion above 
them. The carriage was a closed one ; and perhaps it was as 
well that it was so, for otherwise its occupant could scarcely have 
permitted herself every now and then to emphasise her thoughts 
by sudden ejaculations and rapid gesticulations without running 
the risk of being supposed by the passers-by to be a lunatic 
being driven to a casa di salute. Indeed, the question, Am I sane ? 
was one which Sonia had put to herself not once but many times 
in the course of the last few days, and had failed to find a satis- 
factory answer to it. Was she in very truth in love with this 
good-looking young Englishman — was he in love with her ? Or 
was it not that both of them were in love with — love? He, 
because he was young and strong, and, boy like, ready for any 
adventure that might come in his way ; she, because — ah, well, 
she knew the “ because ! ” She had known it for years — had felt 
it urging her to actions from which her higher nature recoiled, 
and from which, moreover, she had shrunk as an offence against her 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


109 


sense of personal dignity. Every word that she had spoken of her- 
self to this English boy had been true. She had deceived him in 
nothing ; and neither would she allow herself to be deceived by 
him. He knew that she was a married woman ; but he knew, 
too, that her husband was less than nothing to her, in every sense 
of the term. Had he understood, she wondered ? Perhaps not 
yet, though surely she had made her meaning sufficiently clear. 
He had laughed at her, and told her that she was like a boy 
playing truant from school and determined to enjoy himself. It 
was true — if he only knew how true ! Only the simile was a poor 
one. Once in her life — no matter for how short a time, no 
matter what might happen afterwards — she wanted to live. Bah ! 
It was ridiculous to suppose that this English boy should under- 
stand. How should any man understand ? When a man’s nature 
clamoured for satisfaction there was nothing to prevent him from 
humouring its exigencies if he chose to do so. Could any man 
put himself in the position of a woman to whom the fates had 
dealt the cruellest irony of all — binding her for life to a husband 
for whom she could have no other feeling but loathing and con- 
tempt ? Could a man realise all that such a position meant to 
one like herself, who was yet in the full prime and vigour of 
womanhood? No — he, this simple-minded, natural young 
soldier who had so suddenly come into her life would never 
understand ! He would suffer himself to be led away by passion, 
no doubt ; and he would give her for a few brief hours the satis- 
faction for which her nature and her senses alike craved — but he 
would give it without understanding, as he or most other men 
would give it to any woman, provided that she were young and 
good-looking, who laid themselves out to obtain it. 

The thought was irritating — nay, intolerable, for it stung her 
sense of pride; and Sonia di San Vico clenched a well-gloved 
hand and struck it impotently against the cushions of the carriage. 
In other countries, she reflected bitterly, which had freed them- 
selves from priestly tyranny over the natural affections she could 
have obtained a divorce from the man who had ruined her life, 
and would have incurred no social stigma by marrying another 
man to whom she would have been a faithful and honest wife. 


IO 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


But here, in Italy, a body of men who pretended that their sacred 
calling raised them above and beyond all carnal affections was 
still regarded as competent to direct the destinies of millions 
of fellow-creatures who laid no claim to any such impossible 
position. 

Sonia di San Vico was one of those individuals, rare in either 
sex, who was perfectly honest with herself. This quality was, 
indeed, no effort to her to exercise, neither had it anything to 
do with that convenient appanage to human nature which is 
usually called conscience. It is probable that had her conscience 
been of a more sensitive nature, the marchesa di San Vico would 
have been less severe upon herself than she was apt to be. As 
it was, she never attempted to deceive herself as to her motives 
for doing or not doing what she made up her mind to do or to 
leave undone. During the last three or four years she had, as 
she had told Jim Sinclair, kept herself entirely aloof from the 
world; but while she had been in it, the majority of her friends 
had been apt to regard her as a woman with a strong will, but 
with little or no heart and a large amount of cynicism. Like 
most majorities, this one was only right in part. A strong will 
Sonia di San Vico undoubtedly possessed ; and nobody knew 
better than she how her will, and the heart she was supposed not 
to possess, were perpetually coming to blows with one another. 
As to her cynicism, if she cultivated it, it was because force of 
circumstances had taught her to do so. She could remember 
the time when she possessed neither a strong will nor any taint 
of cynicism, and she had lived long enough bitterly to regret the 
fact of their absence at a period in her life when both would have 
been of the greatest help and service to her. 

The stuffy depths of a hired brougham might not be the most 
romantic spot on which to wage a psychical combat ; yet this 
was precisely what Sonia di San Vico was doing as her carriage 
crept slowly up the long ascent to Fiesole. Perhaps, however, 
it would be more accurate to say that she was assisting, as an 
interested spectator with whom lay the final decision as to victory, 
at a contest between her pride and her passions. For years — 
the best years of her life, indeed, as she had often reflected with 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


hi 


bitterness — the former had been strong enough to dominate the 
latter. During those years she had lived in the world, and had 
led the life of that society to which she belonged by birth : a 
society which, to a greater degree, perhaps, than any other, looks 
leniently at the game of three-handed matrimony, and grudges to 
no married woman her cavaliere servenle , provided she do not 
change him too frequently. 

It was not to be supposed that the marchesa di San Vico, 
youthful, beautiful, too, in her type of Tuscan beauty, and known 
to be to all intents and purposes separated from her husband, 
could not for several years after her marriage have enjoyed every 
opportunity of solacing herself for her matrimonial troubles had 
she so chosen. Not even the servants’ hall gossip of the Anglo- 
American salons in Rome, however — those forcing-beds in which 
most of the Roman scandals are raised — had ever been able to 
couple her name with that of a lover ; while her own compatriots, 
being too well-bred to gossip except in the intimacy of the 
family circle, regarded her attitude towards mankind as altogether 
inexplicable. 

To Sonia di San Vico herself it was not at all inexplicable. 
She was quite aware that she was looked upon as an enigma by 
her friends. She was aware, also, that there were some people — 
not many, it was true, but still there were a few — who gave her 
credit for the possession of a high standard of religious morality 
which forbade her to do as so many others did, for whom there 
was far less excuse than there would be for her. This particular 
criticism of her conduct was more irritating to Sonia than any. 
To be supposed to be a saint, even by a small minority, when 
she knew herself to be entirely the reverse, gave her no thrill of 
self-satisfaction. It roused in her a feeling of scornful impatience 
that her motives should be so misjudged. Her inexorable honesty 
to herself revolted at the idea of being credited with scruples 
having their basis in religion. Nevertheless, the marchesa di 
San Vico was not an irreligious woman. In her earlier years, 
indeed, and until her marriage, she had, like any other girl of her 
condition, faithfully followed her religious duties. But religion, 
or, rather, its ministers and professors, had played her too evil 


1 1 2 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


a turn in her life for her to be able to regard it with the old, 
simple faith and trust of her girlhood. All the same, she was 
too large-minded not to be able to draw a distinction between 
religion and the actions too often committed by pretended 
devotees in its name and with the sanction of its ministers ; and 
it was due to her power of making this distinction that, although 
deadened and mistrustful, something of her former faith still 
remained to her. 

One thing, and probably one thing only, had prevented Sonia 
di San Vico from hitherto allowing herself to have a lover. 
From the moment she had realised that her marriage had been 
nothing short of a hideous betrayal on the part of those in whom 
she had trusted, and in accordance with whose wishes she had 
believed herself to be in duty bound to act, she had made up 
her mind as to the course she would pursue. Most women, no 
doubt, !in her position would have argued that since she had 
been deceived, she had every right to console herself in any way 
which might seem good to her. This argument, however, had 
not appealed to her. Possibly, had her marriage been one of 
affection on her part for the man she married, she would speedily 
have taken to herself a lover, if for no other reason than to 
attempt to regain her husband’s affection by arousing his jealousy 
— an experiment which observation had taught her to be by no 
means an uncommon one, and which was occasionally attended 
with success. But Sonia di San Vico’s marriage had been, like 
many another both in Italy and elsewhere, a matter of arrange- 
ment in regard to which her affections were not taken into 
account. She had been told that love would come after mar- 
riage, and had been given to understand that it was unmaidenly 
to raise certain objections which she had hesitatingly advanced 
as reasons against accepting the suitors presented to her by her 
family. She had concluded that the man she was expected to 
marry must love her, otherwise she could see no reason why he 
should have asked for her ; and she had succeeded in stifling her 
own feelings by arguing that no doubt her family was right, that 
the love she could not feel would come to her in the future, and 
that she ought to be ashamed of herself for harbouring certain 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


ii3 

thoughts altogether unsuitable in a young girl. Nobody had told 
her the truth — neither her parents nor her friends. There are 
some truths, indeed, which do not bear the telling, and this had 
happened to be one of them. Worst of all, the priest into whose 
ears she had poured her objections, who had heard her confes- 
sions from her childhood’s days, and whose counsel and advice 
she sought on the eve of concluding her engagement, had joined 
in the conspiracy of silence. He, also, had reproved her for 
allowing her thoughts to dwell too much on the material aspects 
of the life she was about to enter, and had pointed out to her 
that it was her duty to accept as a husband the man chosen for 
her by her parents, assuring her that she would never afterwards 
regret having acted in accordance with their wishes. Sonia di 
San Vico had forgiven her parents, in so far as a cruel wrong can 
be entirely forgiven in this world ; but she had never forgiven the 
perfidy of the priest whom she had trusted as the minister of her 
Church to guide her in making her final decision. When she 
realised this perfidy, her whole soul had revolted in indignant 
disgust. Religion had seemed to her to be one vast hypocrisy 
with which no honest human being should have anything to do. 
It was some time before the old traditions reasserted them- 
selves in her mind, and her judgment became calmer and clearer. 
Even when they did so — when, gradually, her nature began to 
cry out for some guiding spirit to which to turn — they found their 
former habitation in very truth swept and garnished. Henceforth 
“ the Church,” though she would occasionally attend its offices, 
was non-existent for her. Her religion had become a purely 
personal affair between herself and her Creator, and nothing 
would have induced her ever again to seek help or counsel from 
a priest. 

In those days, when she discovered that even her confessor 
who had prepared her for her first communion had leagued him- 
self with her betrayers, she had sought counsel only of herself. 
Pride, and an intense desire to be avenged on the man who had 
taken advantage of her innocence, pointed out a course to her 
To have a lover, or lovers, would but be playing into the hands 
of her husband. Absolutely to refuse to fulfil her conjugal duties, 
8 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


114 

and at the same time to place it out of her husband’s power to 
declare that she reserved for some other man what she was legally 
bound to give to him, had been the method which she had from 
the first determined to pursue, and she had kept to her purpose 
unswervingly. As she had told Jim Sinclair in one of those rare 
moments when she had allowed herself to speak of her married 
life, her husband had not dared to insist on his marital rights. 
For a few years she had consented to remain under his roof 
rather than make an open scandal ; but during that period she 
had completely mastered him, and had from the first given him 
plainly to understand that if he ventured to oppose her deter- 
mination, she would appeal to the Vatican for an annulment of 
the marriage, thereby compelling him to face certain revelations 
which, as a sequel, must inevitably have brought him within the 
jurisdiction of the civil courts. It was not until after her father’s 
death that she had finally realised the full extent of her husband’s 
baseness ; and, on realising it, she had left his house without 
condescending to explain her action either to him or to the world, 
contenting herself with causing her lawyers to write him a letter 
announcing that, though she would take no steps to annul her 
marriage, she refused any longer to bear his name, and intended 
for the future to be known by the title which, at her father’s 
death, was legally hers to assume if she so pleased. She knew 
well enough that her husband would not venture to oppose this 
resolution ; and she knew, moreover, that even were he prepared 
to risk the exposure with which she would infallibly have met any 
such opposition, all the pressure that the Vatican could bring to 
bear upon its adherents would be exercised in order to prevent a 
fresh scandal in the ranks of a party which in recent years had 
been sufficiently indiscreet in allowing some of its members to 
wash their dirty linen before an unedified if delighted public. 

At what a cost to herself the marchesa di San Vico had 
systematically carried out her determination to resist all tempta- 
tions to taste of certain enjoyments in life for which her southern 
nature and temperament alike yearned, she alone knew. Never- 
theless, she had followed the course she had set herself to pursue 
unflinchingly and inexorably. In leaving Rome and withdrawing 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


i*5 

from the world she had told herself that she was not only 
dealing a fierce blow at the honour of the husband whose very 
name she scorned to bear, but that she was at the same time 
adding another barrier against some possible temptation which 
might cause her nature to triumph over her will. Since that 
time, now nearly four years ago, when she had not been living 
quietly in her own villa of San Vico, she had travelled. Her 
income was not a large one, though when she married it was 
understood that she had brought a considerable dot to her 
husband. According to the Italian custom, however, this dot 
had been entirely merged into her husband’s patrimony, nor had 
she any further rights over it. Fortunately for herself, she had 
been able to insist on a certain yearly sum being paid to her 
through her lawyers when she had finally abandoned his house, 
and to these conditions her husband had been reluctantly forced to 
agree, lest yet harder ones should be imposed upon him. This 
sum, together with the rents of the lands appertaining to her own 
fief of San Vico, which were situated in various parts of Tuscany, 
formed an income which, if not large, was at all events amply 
sufficient to maintain the modest establishment at San Vico and 
to permit its mistress to spend her winters in foreign countries 
when she chose to do so. 

Hitherto Sonia had been able to congratulate herself on 
the fact that her plans had worked admirably, notwithstanding 
occasional periods when her physical nature protested loudly and 
insistently against them. She had the intense satisfaction of 
feeling that while her own position was unassailable, she had 
made that of her husband both ridiculous and contemptible. 
Moreover, these very periods of physical unrest, of longing for 
those things which she had determined to put out of her path, 
had of late become less frequent and less insistent. She had 
plenty of interests which seemed to increase rather than diminish 
as her life became more solitary. It had been part of her general 
scheme to cultivate these interests, if for no other reason than to 
prevent self-centredness, and not to allow her mind to dwell 
exclusively on her own troubles, and, it must be confessed, upon 
her own unsatisfied desires. 


1 1 6 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


It was, perhaps, typical of the uncertainties of human nature 
and the capriciousness of Fate, that never before had Sonia di 
San Vico felt so secure, so confident of the strength of the 
position she had attained after many wrestlings with the weak- 
nesses of the flesh, as at the conclusion of her winter spent in 
Algeria and Tunis when she embarked on the steamer which was 
to take her back to Italy. If, in the stuffy privacy of her hired 
brougham, she struck her fist impotently against the moth- 
eaten cushions, the action was the outward and visible expression 
of inward feelings very far from spiritual, coupled with rage in her 
heart that a few hours had apparently sufficed to stultify the con- 
sistent attitude of years ; that a chance meeting had rekindled to 
a white heat passions which she had already begun to congratulate 
herself on having, if not entirely extinguished, at all events sub- 
jugated until they had become comparatively innocuous. 

Even now, true to her instinct of pitiless self-analysis, Sonia 
di San Vico was asking herself whether this were love, or merely 
a frenzy of desire to be loved. For the first time in her life that 
other self of hers gave no satisfactory reply. The silence left her 
trembling and aghast. She had scarcely realised until the last 
few days that she dreaded love, however much she might long 
for the physical satisfaction of passion. To fall in love, indeed, 
had been a contingency altogether outside her calculations, how- 
ever much she might have contemplated the danger of falling in 
more material ways from the position she had chosen to assume. 
To love would mean the complete and irremediable destruction of 
that position, the triumph of the man she had spent some of the 
best years of her youth in seeking to mortify. 

The carriage rattled through the little piazza in front of the 
Duomo at Fiesole. It was the afternoon of a festa , and the open 
space was thronged with peasants from the neighbouring villages, 
with groups of Florentine holiday-makefrs, and bands of Fiesolani 
who, unlike their Tuscan compatriots in general, are not credited 
with the courteousness and good manners proverbial to the race. 
Once clear of the town, the driver whipped up his horses and 
very soon the carriage turned out of the high-road into a lane 
leading through the pine-woods from which San Vico could be 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


117 

seen perched on a poggio overlooking the valley of the Sieve and 
facing the fir-clad heights of Vallombrosa. Sonia di San Yico 
for the first time since leaving the railway station at Florence 
leaned forward and looked out of the window at the lovely view 
stretching away before her. Yes; there was San Vico. She 
could see the white fa£ade of the villa, and its windows gleaming 
in the rays of the westering sun. To-morrow he, that English 
boy, would be driving down the same road. If only she could 
be sure which it was — love, or the other thing ! Remorsefully, 
inexorably, she recalled to her mind every detail connected with 
their meeting. It was she who had been the first to speak. He, 
like a well-bred gentleman, had been markedly careful to avoid 
obtruding himself on her notice — and she had deliberately placed 
her travelling-bag in such a position that the next roll of the 
vessel must inevitably send it sliding along the deck in his 
direction. And she had laughed at him, teased him, amused 
herself with him, until suddenly amusement had ceased, and she 
had felt for the first time in her life that she was in the presence 
of a man to whom she would give herself without scruple, careless 
of what the consequences might be, heedless that she was stulti- 
fying all her action in the past, if only she could feel his arms 
round her and his lips upon her own. She had realised then 
that hitherto the protests of her nature had been purely sub- 
jective ; her desires had never concentrated themselves on an 
individual but had exhausted themselves in an abstract longing 
for the act of love. In a moment the subjective had changed 
into the objective. The difference was enormous, overwhelming. 
If this thing with which she was suddenly confronted were love, 
it meant disaster, defeat — a veritable debacle, in short. But 
there was time yet. She would not allow herself to love. Any- 
thing else, but not that ! Afterwards, the boy would go away, 
and the same thing would happen to him again — many times, 
probably. He would forget, and she, well, she for a few brief 
hours would have lived. The walls of San Vico would tell no 
tales, and she would be careful, oh, very careful ! The carriage 
turned into the gates and down the avenue of ancient ilex-trees 
leading up to the villa. Her small household was on the steps to 


1 1 8 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


receive her, and her hands were kissed effusively as she passed 
into the house. She returned her servants’ greetings as warmly as 
they were given ; but all the time one word only seemed to ring 
in her ears, and that was an English word — the last that Jim 
Sinclair had uttered as she drove away from the station. 

“ To-morrow ! ” 


CHAPTER XI 



HE following morning, with a punctuality which was almost 


X excessive, Jim Sinclair’s carriage drove into the courtyard 
of the Villa San Vico. The drive out from Florence had been 
one of unmixed delight, it being his first experience of the 
beauties of Italian scenery ; for the glimpses he had caught 
from the windows of the train the day before had been too 
fleeting to make any lasting impression ; while at Syracuse he 
had usually been engaged in looking at other things with which 
the scenery of the place had nothing to do. The loveliest of 
May mornings — and where is May so lovely as in Tuscany? — 
made the country look its best. Everywhere there was a pro- 
fusion of roses. They clung in gorgeous clusters to the stems 
of the cypress trees, and peeped over the tops of the grey walls 
surrounding the grounds of the villas on the roadsides, while on 
every bank were masses of iris and wild geranium, and every 
hedge seemed clothed in honeysuckle and the soft, fluffy 

blossoms of “ traveller’s joy.” As the carriage gained the open 
roadway at San Domenico, and the glorious valley of the Arno 
unfolded itself before his eyes, Jim uttered an involuntary 

exclamation of admiration and delight. A soft, blue haze 

faintly shrouded the lesser hills stretching away into the distance 
in ridge after ridge ; the Arno, its waters flashing in the sunlight, 
seemed like a silver ribbon carelessly flung across the shimmer- 
ing plain ; and in the nearer foreground below him lay Florence, 
brown-roofed, nestling beside the banks of her river, her domes 
and towers rearing themselves aloft into a cloudless sky of 
deepest blue. The coachman, hearing Jim’s exclamation and 
perfectly aware of its cause, checked his horses, and turning 
round on his box proceeded to point out the various objects of 
interest in the view with his whip; and Jim, impatient as he 


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ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


was to reach San Vico, suffered him to do so, although he 
understood but little of what the man said. He did not much 
want to understand. It was sufficient to drink in the whole 
beauty of the scene — that tender, poetic beauty of a Tuscan 
landscape, and especially of the landscape of the Val d’Arno, 
which appeals to even the most prosaic of beholders — without 
troubling himself as to details. He was vaguely conscious, 
it was true, that down there in the brown city great men had 
lived and died who had made it the cradle of the arts in the 
modern world, and who had rekindled the torch of genius which 
for centuries had been all but spent. At that moment, with the 
spell of the fatal beauty of Italy full upon him, the fact seemed 
to be of secondary importance — a mere incident compared with 
the overwhelming sense of peaceful loveliness inspired by the 
scene spread before his eyes. 

Nothing that a forestiero can do, especially if that forestiero 
happen to be an Englishman, astonishes an Italian ; and the 
coachman was not the least surprised when Jim quickly 
descended from the carriage and proceeded to mouut the box 
and seat himself beside him. 

“Bravo !” he exclaimed benevolently, “the signorino will see 
much more if he sits up here. Ah-h-h-h ! ” which last observa- 
tion was addressed not to Jim, but to the horses, who evidently 
considered that the view was worthy of a longer halt. 

After leaving Fiesole behind them, however, Jim returned 
to his place inside the carriage. He felt that he would not 
give the Marchesa di San Vico’s servant grounds for further 
suspicion than that which she had already warned him would 
probably be shown him on his arrival at the villa. Presently 
the coachman turned round again. “ Ecco la villa San Vico ! ” 
he said, pointing with his whip across a wooded valley to the 
great white house standing above its group of dependent cottages. 

Jim looked at it critically. The windows of the upper 
stories were apparently closed, for two lines of green shutters 
stared blankly at him in return. He felt no little curiosity to 
see, for the first time in his life, the inside of a foreign country- 
house, and how foreigners lived when they were at home. 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


1 2 1 


Hitherto his experiences had been limited to one or two balls 
given by Maltese magnates, of which his chief recollections were 
the overpowering heat of the rooms and the sickly sweetness 
of the beverage which was called champagne. Once within the 
gates of the villa the deep, cool shade of the ilex avenue formed 
a grateful contrast after the glare of the white roads. Passing 
under a low archway the carriage turned into a three-sided 
court in the centre of which were some tall magnolia-trees laden 
with bloom which scented the whole air around them. Ap- 
parently the marchesa had taken steps to prevent any such 
formalities as she had led him to expect would attend his 
admittance, for the carriage had no sooner drawn up at the 
entrance-door when an old gentleman with white hair and 
benign of countenance greeted him with a polite bow. 

The signora marchesa expected the signorino, Jim was in- 
formed, and he was ushered into the hall where the benevolent 
gentleman who, Jim thought, should have been an archbishop 
rather than a butler, left him for a moment with a courteous 
apology and proceeded to give some directions to the coachman. 
It seemed to Jim that he traversed an endless number of rooms 
before his guide stopped at some folding doors. So stately was 
his demeanour that, as he was about to knock, Jim felt inclined 
to beg him not to condescend to anything so unepiscopal. This 
impulse was barely conquered when the doors opened suddenly 
and Sonia di San Vico appeared on their threshold. 

“So,” she said, as she shook hands with him, “you have 
found your way to San Vico ! That is well. You see, you were 
not kept waiting in the hall ! And your drive ? Did I exaggerate 
when I told you that it was beautiful ? ” 

Jim murmured something incoherent about the scenery, he 
did not the least know what. It struck him that his hostess was 
looking paler than when he had parted from her the day before. 
The old servant had discreetly vanished, and the marchesa 
motioned her guest into the room. 

“ This is my own particular sitting-room,” she said. “ The 
house, as you see, is a large one, far too large for a solitary 
woman. I only inhabit a portion of it.” 


122 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


Jim glanced round the room. It was comfortably, even 
luxuriously furnished. Books in various languages lay about on 
the tables, and a few pictures, evidently of a certain value, hung 
on its damask-covered walls. The two windows were both open, 
a flight of steps leading down from each into the garden. Through 
them came the scent of magnolias and roses, and the song of 
birds, among which every now and again the notes of a nightin- 
gale rose in rivalry with those of thrushes and the more distant 
call of cuckoos answering one another in the valley beneath. For 
a minute or two there was silence within the room, a silence 
born of temporary embarrassment on the part of both its 
occupants. The indifferent ease with which the Sonia di San 
Vico had received her visitor appeared suddenly to have deserted 
her; and Jim, too, found it difficult to make a remark. 

“Well,” observed the marchesa presently, speaking in her 
measured English which Jim found so fascinating — “well, Mr. 
Sinclair, what do you think of San Vico ? It is not like your 
English country-houses ; that I know. But, all the same, it has 
its attractions — no ? ” 

“ From what I have seen of it, it appears to me to be an 
earthly paradise ! ” replied J im Sinclair enthusiastically. 

Sonia di San Vico laughed. “ With everything complete, 
even to the serpent ? ” she asked. 

“ No,” returned Jim gravely. “ The earthly paradise before 
the serpent appeared upon the scene ; when there was only Eve.” 

“ It seems to me,” observed the marchesa drily, “ that you 
forget Adam ! ” 

“ He drove out from Florence ! ” 

She let her eyes dwell upon his for a moment. “ And it all 
ended very badly,” she said, after a pause. “ Do you forget that, 
also ? ” 

Jim shrugged his shoulders. “So it is said,” he remarked. 
“ I have always thought it a very low trick to play on two human 
beings. If the apple wasn’t meant to be eaten, why the deuce 
was it allowed to grow there ? ” 

Sonia di San Vico laughed, and then she sighed quickly. 

“ That was precisely Eve’s argument,” she said. 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


123 

“ Then Eve was more logical than her sex is usually supposed 
to be ! ” 

Sonia looked at him curiously. “ I do not believe that you 
know anything about women,” she replied. “ Their logic is not 
a man’s logic.” 

“ I know something about one woman,” returned Jim a little 
doggedly, “and that is enough for me. At least — no — it is not 
by any means enough ! ” 

“No? And why not? Perhaps it would be wiser not to 
seek to know any more.” 

“ Oh, wise ! If one always stopped to consider what was 
wise ” 

“ Yes ? What would be the result ? ” 

“ One would — well, one would never have any fun ! ” 

Sonia di San Vico contemplated him seriously. “ Fun,” she 
repeated, and a note of hardness crept into her voice as she 
spoke. “ You mean amusement — no ? That is all a man thinks 
about — amusement ! Well, it is natural, since he knows that he 
can always provide himself with it whenever he chooses, provided 
that he is able to pay for it.” 

Jim’s fair face suddenly flushed crimson. “I didn’t mean 
that!” he exclaimed. “Surely you cannot think that when I 
used the word * fun ’ I was alluding to — to that sort of thing ! ” 

“ Then what did you mean ? ” 

Jim hesitated. “ Upon my soul,” he replied, “ I hardly know 
what I meant, but it was certainly not that ! I meant that if one 
always allowed one’s head to rule one’s feelings, no doubt one 
would be very wise, but — well, I simply couldn’t do it, so there 
is no use discussing the matter ! ” 

Sonia laughed softly. “Do you know,” she said, “that you 

are how do you call it ? — a puzzle to me ? One moment you 

talk like a man with all a man’s experience, and the next moment 
you talk like a boy with none at all ! ” 

“Which side of me do you prefer?” asked Jim, smiling. 

“Ah, the boy side, undoubtedly. But there again, a boy 
would never have asked the question. Sometimes you are 
decidedly provoking —emb'etant. All the same, I would not 


124 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


have you different. That, you will say, is illogical. Very likely 
it is so, but I do not care at all ! ” 

“ Sonia ! ” exclaimed Jim suddenly, “ I will be anything you 
like — to you ! ” 

“ Hush ! I like you as you are — your natural self. Is that 
not enough ? ” 

“No!” 

She drew herself away from him. “ It must be enough, for 
the present, at all events,” she added softly. “ In a quarter of 
an hour it will be breakfast-time. Shall I ring for Leopoldo — 
that is my servant’s name ; he was called after the last Grand 
Duke of Tuscany, and I regret to say is an extremely disloyal 
subject to our present rulers in consequence ! — and tell him to 
show you to a room I have had prepared for you ; or will you 
come out into the garden with me till breakfast is ready ? ” 

Jim glanced at his hands. “I assure you,” he said, “that I 
do not want washing, and I would rather come out with you. 
Leopoldo ? Yes, he looks like it ! It would have been a shock 
to my feelings had he been called John, for instance. He gives 
me more the idea of an archbishop than a butler.” 

The marchesa laughed. “ He is certainly a very dignified 
person,” she said. “ I suppose he has inherited his manners 
from his father who was an usher at the Tuscan court before the 
change of government. But he is far too honest an individual to 
be an archbishop,” she added drily. This too sweeping sarcasm 
was lost upon Jim, whose attention was taken up by the garden 
into which they were descending. 

“ It is altogether disgusting ! ” he observed suddenly, much to 
his hostess’s surprise. 

“ What is disgusting ? My garden ? ” 

“ Good heavens, no ! It is disgusting to think that instead of 
sitting out here with you after dinner to-night, I shall have to 
drive back to that beastly hotel ! ” 

“ But it is an orri — a horrible word, your ‘ beastly ’ ! Yes, you 
will certainly have to drive back to your hotel. But all the same, 
there will be time for you to see the garden after dinner. The 
fireflies are wonderful just now, and if you wish for a concert, 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


125 

you can listen to the nightingales. One hears too much of 
them. Last night I slept not at all.” 

“On account of the nightingales?” 

“Yes, no ! On account of many things.” 

“That explains it ! ” said Jim. “ I thought you looked pale, 
tired. The long journey, no doubt.” 

“ Of course ! And the feeling of responsibility.” 

“ Of responsibility ? ” 

“ Sicuro ! of responsibility for entertaining you to-day.” 

“You thought of me, Sonia?” asked Jim in a low voice. 

“ A little, perhaps. The nightingales were very annoying.” 

“ And I ? I scarcely slept at all, either, though there were no 
nightingales in my hotel ! ” As a matter of fact, Jim Sinclair had 
lain awake for perhaps a couple of hours after retiring to bed, 
and had then slept soundly — the sleep of the young and healthy — 
until eight o’clock that morning. But those two hours of wake- 
fulness had seemed treble the time to one who had never had 
anything on his mind of a nature to banish sleep. 

Further explanations of the phenomena were prevented by 
the appearance on the steps of Leopoldo, who informed the 
marchesa that breakfast was served. Sonia led the way into a 
long and lofty dining-room, at one end of which a round table 
gay with flowers was laid for two. 

“To-morrow,” she said, “we will breakfast out of doors. 
There is a loggia on the other side of the house which is in the 
shade at this hour of the day, and the view from it is superb. I 
do not know why Leopoldo has not allowed us to do so to-day ; 
but I suppose he thought that so rare a guest at San Vico as a 
signore inglese should be entertained more formally ! ” 

Jim had soon reason to find out that his hostess had not 
boasted vainly of the excellence of her cook. The breakfast was 
irreproachable. A small cup of strong consomme was followed by 
sweetbreads dexterously prepared with olives ; and after these 
came asparagus, little filets de boeuf accompanied by the softest 
and most velvety of sauces, a souffle light as the best of French 
chefs could have made it, while strawberries fragrant with the 
kisses of the sun formed the dessert. The wine which Sonia 


126 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


recommended to her guest was of that genuine Chianti, scented 
and silky to the palate, which never finds its way into the market, 
and which is as different from the rough, coarse wine of the 
Puglie, doctored with Tuscan vin ordinaire and sold by the 
hotel and restaurant keepers to the unsuspecting foreigner at five 
francs a bottle as “ Chianti vecchio ” or even “ stravecchio,” at a 
clear profit of some four hundred per cent., as ginger-beer is from 
the best brands of champagne. Sonia herself drank a little of 
some light white wine, but the benevolent Leopoldo, who waited 
quickly and noiselessly without ever lapsing from his habitual 
dignity, was not satisfied until the English signore had done ample 
justice to the more generous Tuscan vintage. At the conclusion 
of the meal Sonia told him to serve the coffee in the loggia 
she had already described to Jim, and thither they presently re- 
sorted to smoke their cigarettes. The view from the graceful 
arches was one of incomparable beauty. Fold after fold of blue 
hills stretched away into the far distance, and crowning them all 
rose the still snow-clad peaks of the Apennines. Smiling valleys 
dotted with villages lost themselves in the recesses of the hills, 
and on the nearer slopes the tender green of the branching vines 
stood out in vivid relief against the brown earth of ancient 
Etruria. Jim Sinclair, keenly appreciative of the beauties of 
nature, was entranced. This fair land of Tuscany in the first 
blush of its spring loveliness was a revelation to him. Its peculiar 
delicacy and subtle unobtrusive charm appealed to him strangely. 
In some mysterious way he felt that the best part of his own 
nature was attuned to it. An indefinable sense of a. harmony 
almost approaching to an audible strain of music seemed to per- 
vade his being and make him one with it. He understood now 
the powerful attraction which this magic land had for his uncle, 
Anthony Cuthbert. The country round Cuthbertsheugh was 
beautiful, too, in its own rugged Northern way. It also could be 
soft and tender when it was in the mood to be so. But surely it 
could not draw the heart out of a man and take it to its own 
heart as did this wondrous land of Tuscany ! 

“ What are you thinking of so deeply, my friend ? ” asked 
Sonia di San Vico suddenly. She was lying back in her chair, 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


127 

sending little puffs of smoke from her lips into the still air, and 
looking at Jim who had been quite unconscious of her gaze. 

“ That,” he replied simply, pointing to the landscape below 
them. “ Is it not beautiful enough to make any man think ? I 
suppose you are accustomed to it : but to me it is marvellous. I 
did not think I was a sentimental person, though I am very fond 
of scenery and of everything to do with Nature. But I think 
that if I lived long in this country, I should become sentimental 
and begin to talk rot.” 

“ Rot ? ” repeated Sonia doubtfully ; “ I thought that rot was 
something to do with unpleasant things — decay, is it not ? ” 

Jim laughed delightedly. “ You are adorable when you get 
confused with my abominable slang ! ” he exclaimed. “ Yes — 
you are quite right. Talking rot is a sign of decay — especially 
talking aesthetic rot. Heaven preserve me from that ! and I 
think it will.” 

“ I do not understand,” said Sonia helplessly. “ Why should 
living in this country make people talk of nasty things ? ” 

“ Never mind,” returned Jim despairingly. “ I have always 
told you that my English is disgracefully bad, whereas yours is 
extremely good. Let us talk of something more interesting — 
ourselves, for instance. You certainly look better since luncheon. 
Is it because the nightingales have stopped singing ? ” 

“ Or, perhaps, because you have stopped talking ? Are you 
aware that until I asked you what you were thinking about you 
had not spoken a single word since we came into this loggia ? ” 

“ I am afraid I have been very rude ! ” Jim replied penitently. 
“ But after all,” he added, “ you ought to be flattered that your 
beautiful country reduced me to silence ! I suppose, however, 
that you think me an idiot for being so much impressed by it.” 

“ By no means,” replied the marchesa hastily. “ I am often 
impressed by its beauty myself, although I was born in it. Only, 
I did not think men heeded such things ; unless, of course, they 
happened to be artists. But your own country is beautiful, is it 
not ? To be sure, you have no flowers, except in your gardens. 
It must be strange to live in a country where all the flowers have 
to be grown under glass.” 


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ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


“ No flowers — in England ? ” Jim replied indignantly. “ But 
of course we have flowers — masses of them in the spring and 
summer ! What put such an idea into your head, I wonder ? ” 

“ I have often heard it said,” answered Sonia humbly. “ Be- 
sides, all your compatriots when they come to Italy buy flowers — 
so naturally we Italians suppose that flowers must be very rare 
things in your country. But tell me about your home. It is 
charming, no doubt.” 

Jim smiled sarcastically. “ I haven’t got a home,” he replied ; 
“ at least, not a real one. When I had, it was detestable.” 

Sonia looked at him sympathetically. “ If so,” she said 
gently, “ it was by no fault of your own, I am sure.” 

Jim shrugged his shoulders. “ I don’t know,” he replied. 
“ Perhaps it was. Anyhow I was happier when I was away from 
it. As long as my mother was alive, I could stand it — for her 
sake. But after she died — well, it became intolerable.” 

“ Ah ! ” observed Sonia, “ I think you told me that your 
father was — I forget what you called him — one of your priests.” 

“ A parson — yes. We did not hit it off. I mean,” Jim 
added, correcting himself, “ there was not much in common 
between us.” 

“ I should suppose not,” observed the marchesa drily. 

Jim laughed. “ Do not let us talk about it,” he said. “ It 
all came to an end long ago. For the last few years my home 
has practically been with my regiment.” 

Sonia di San Vico was silent for a space. “ And — you must 

not think me very impertinent — you have no ties ? no fiancee ? ” 

Jim Sinclair laughed again. “ Certainly not ! ” he exclaimed. 
“ I am what is called an absolutely free man. The position has 
its advantages ; and I have never contemplated matrimony. What 
is the matter, Sonia ? Why do you look like that ? Is it not 
better so ? ” 

Sonia threw her half-smoked cigarette away. “ I am glad ! ” 
she said in a low voice. 

He looked at her inquiringly. “ You are glad ? ” he repeated. 

“ Why ? why, Sonia ? ” 

The drowsy, voluptuous calm of the midday hours when the 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


129 


May sun was at its hottest had caused a great stillness to fall on 
Nature. The birds, hidden in the densest shade of the foliage, 
were silently awaiting the approach of evening to recommence 
their song, and only an irrepressible nightingale now and again 
burst forth into a sudden trill of melody, to cease as suddenly as 
it had begun. And in the silence Jim waited for Sonia di San 
Vico’s reply to his question. 

“You must know why I am glad,” she said presently. 

The blood mounted to Jim Sinclair’s head. He sprang up 
from his chair and stood beside her. Sonia waved him back. 
“ No, listen,” she exclaimed, almost imperiously. “ You know 
perfectly well why I am glad. We need not pretend to mis- 
understand one another. Let us be honest, if we are nothing 
else ! I am glad that you are free, that no other woman has any 
claim upon you, because, if you had not been so, I should have 
sent you away from me before it was too late. In my life I 
have been too much wronged myself to dare to wrong another 
woman. I know that you are not lying to me. Your eyes tell 
the truth. Besides, an English gentleman does not lie to a 
woman who trusts him ; or, if he does, he is not worthy of his 
reputation.” 

“ I swear that it is the truth ! ” Jim said earnestly. “ There is 
no woman living who could say that I had wronged her in the 
slightest way ; and no man either, if it comes to that ! ” he added 
proudly. “ I, too, have my ideas on certain subjects ; and 
if you had not told me that you also were free, that you 
owed no duty and no loyalty to the man you were forced to 
marry, if I did not know that you even refused to bear his 
name, I should never have told you that I loved you. I’m no 
saint, God knows ! but making love to other people’s wives — real 
love, I mean — seems to me to be uncommonly like a low form 
of thieving.” 

Sonia looked up into his face. “ So, we are both free ! ” she 
said. “ The question remains : What shall we do with our 
freedom while we have got it ? ” 

The words were spoken, whispered almost, as if to herself, 
but Jim heard them. 

9 


130 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


“ What ? ” he exclaimed ; “ why, enjoy it ! we wrong no one. 
We love each other, and is not that enough ? Why need we 
think of anything else ? Sonia, when ? how ? I have had no 
reply to that telegram. At any moment I may be recalled to 
Malta — and you know why I have come here, to Florence.” 

Sonia looked at him thoughtfully, as though revolving a 
problem in her mind. “ As you cannot lie to me,” she said 
slowly, “neither will I to you. Listen. I have never said that I 
love you ; and you — you are mistaken when you say that you 
love me ! ” 

Jim made an indignant gesture of dissent. 

“ Ah, I do not mean that you do not think, honestly think, 
that you love me — but it is a delusion — a delusion which I have 
raised in you.” 

“ Sonia ! what on earth do you mean ? I tell you that I love 
you, that in twenty-four hours from the time I first met you I 
already loved you ! Do you suppose that I can be mistaken in 
that?” 

“ I do not suppose it, I know it,” replied Sonia di San Vico 
calmly. 

Jim began to lose his temper. “And you?” he exclaimed, 
“ you will tell me that you do not love me, of course ! And yet, 
you suggested that I should come to Florence.” 

“ I did more. I forced you to make my acquaintance. I 
broke down your English reserve ; in short, I behaved as any 
cocotte might have done. And yet, I am not — what all that 
would imply. I did for you what I have never done for any other 
man, because in meeting you I felt for the first time in my life 
that I had met a man whom I could trust, and who would give 
me, perhaps, all that has been denied to my woman’s nature.” 

“ And is not that love? ” returned Jim quickly. “ If you had 
not understood that I loved you, and if you had not felt that 
you could return my love, is it likely that you would have allowed 
yourself to act as you say you did ? You know that you would 
never have stooped to such a thing. It is absurd to say that this 
is not love ! ” 

“ But I tell you that it is not ! ” said Sonia vehemently. “ It 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


131 

must not, shall not be love. Anything else you like, but not that. 
We — want each other. You, because you are a man, and because 
I have raised desires in you which you have probably felt often 
before and will certainly do so often again, want me. I, because 
I am a woman who has never known but one passion, and that 
one abhorrent to me, long to know, long to think, afterwards, 
that for one brief space in my life I had — lived. Is this love, on 
your part or on mine ? Need we pretend that it is love ? ” 

She spoke calmly, with a set deliberation of manner as though 
she were reciting a speech already prepared and often rehearsed. 
Her unsparing self-criticism, almost brutal in its cynicism, did 
not, however, convey to her listener the slightest sense of in- 
delicacy. Their very frankness and deliberateness saved her 
words from any such taint as that to which some more subtle 
and enigmatic form of presenting them would assuredly have 
exposed them. 

Jim Sinclair bit his lips in considerable perplexity. He had 
not been used to dealing with psychological problems, and had 
certainly never before been confronted by one of a nature so 
complicated as this. Up to now he had believed that he was 
genuinely in love with the woman who appeared to be so ruth- 
lessly determined to eliminate love from the question at issue. 
After all, he said to himself, everything depended upon what was 
meant by love. Nevertheless, puzzled as he was by the entirely 
unexpected problem Sonia di San Vico had hurled at his head, 
he could not but see the drift of her argument so far as it applied 
to his own feelings. 

“ It seems to me,” he replied, in answer to her question, 
“that, whatever we may agree to call it, we know what we want.” 

The observation was sufficiently to the point — more so, per- 
haps, than Jim was altogether aware of when he made it. Sonia 
smiled at a directness which pleased her. 

“Do we?” she asked. “I am very sure that I do; but 
in your case I am not so sure. Let us understand each other 
well, so that — afterwards — there may be no misunderstanding. 
What would you gain by loving a woman whom you could neither 
marry nor live with — and what would she gain by loving you? 


132 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


Nothing — is it not so ? Therefore, love, under such circumstances, 
would be a mere waste of time — a most deplorable error. You, 
it is true, are free — and so am I, in a sense. But I am a married 
woman, and with us only her husband’s death renders a married 
woman absolutely free.” 

“ I know,” replied Jim, and Anthony Cuthbert’s experiences 
recurred to his mind as he spoke. It was strange, he thought, 
that he, Jim, should also have fallen in love with a woman who 
could not get rid of an objectionable husband, however much 
she might wish to do so. Perhaps, however, it was not so 
strange a coincidence after all; since, as there was no divorce 
in Italy, hundreds of women, and, in the reverse way, of men 
too, must be in a similar plight. “ But,” he continued, “ some 
day you might be absolutely free. One never knows what may 
happen.” 

She looked at him curiously. “ And if I were ? ” she said. 

“ If you were, you would marry me ! nothing could be simpler.” 
“ And you would wait for that contingency ? ” 

Jim hesitated. “You mean — ?” he began. 

“ I mean, you would wait for what you want until then ? ” 
“Sonia! that would be trying me too hard. After all, the 
contingency might never be realised until we were both old 
people ! I could not promise — I should be lying to you if I 
did. No; let us go away — out of Italy. You could get your 
divorce in some other country, and then you would be free to 
marry me. I would wait, till then — I swear it ! ” 

Sonia shook her head. “No,” she said decidedly. “I will 
never go out of my own country to get what I cannot get here. 
Besides, I have other reasons for wishing things to remain as 
they are — until either my husband’s death or my own puts 
an end to them. Do you not understand now why I say that 
we cannot pretend to bring love into the matter ? Love means 
faithfulness, continuity, mutual responsibility. Why should we 
burden ourselves with any of these? Our ways in life are 
different. Afterwards, when we must part, you will go your 
way, and I mine — so the story will be ended ! ” 

“But if — well, you do not mind if I say it plainly — if your 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


i33 


husband should die — to-morrow — next year — within any reason- 
able time, even if you had not made me wait for what I want, 
would you marry me then, Sonia ? ” asked Jim. 

Sonia di San Vico smiled slightly. “ I think,” she replied, 
“in that case the question would rather be whether you would 
marry me ! ” 

“ In that case, I give you my word of honour that I would,” 
answered Jim simply. 

A sudden look of infinite tenderness came into Sonia di San 
Vico’s eyes. “ I believe you,” she said ; “ but — I would not 
accept the sacrifice.” 

“ Sacrifice ! ” 

“ But certainly ! when you marry, it must not be to a woman 
whose life has been wrecked as mine has been. You must marry 
some girl younger than yourself, whose life you can mould into 
your own — not a woman two — or is it three ? — years older than 
you with a past into which you could never enter. No — when 
you leave me, it will be for ever ; but you will leave me knowing 
that you have brought a few hours’ happiness into my life, and 
that you have not wronged anybody by doing so. Will it not 
be enough ? ” 

“ Yes — and no ! Do you mean to say that I could never 
come to see you again — never even write to you — pass out of 
your life as if we had never met ?” 

“Yes,” said Sonia, faintly but resolutely. 

“ But why — why ? It is ridiculous — impossible ! ” 

“ Do not ask me why. It must be that — or nothing.” 

Jim was silent. “Sonia,” he said presently, in a low voice, 
“is that an irrevocable decision?” 

“ Irrevocable.” 

“ My God ! ” he muttered, “ you try a man hard ! I do not 
understand you. You are ready to give yourself to me, and yet 
you would send me away from you for ever, as soon as you have 
done so. Do you think that I only want that and nothing more ? ” 

“No — and it is precisely because I do not think it that I 
make the condition. Some day you will thank me for having 
done so.” 


134 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


“That is what people always say when they do something 
odious,” said Jim bitterly. 

Sonia di San Vico shrugged her shoulders. “ C'est a prendre 
ou a laisser ,” she said. “ It is my condition— that, or nothing.” 

He looked at her for a moment in silence. “You wish it 
so ? ” he exclaimed suddenly. “ Remember, Sonia, afterwards, 
that I wished it otherwise. I feel that I am committing a base- 
ness by you — and yet, good heavens, I am not made of marble ! 
I want you, Sonia — I want you ! ” 

Her eyes flashed with a sudden blaze, and she rose hastily 
from her chair, her face almost brushing his. “And I?” she 
murmured. “ Choose ! ” she continued impatiently. “ Choose — 
that, or nothing ! ” 

“ Then — that ! ” 

“ Come ! ” said Sonia di San Vico. “ You have not seen the 
house.” 


CHAPTER XII 


T HE carriage which had returned to take Jim Sinclair back to 
Florence that evening had been waiting considerably over 
an hour in the courtyard of the Villa San Vico while the coach- 
man slumbered peacefully on its box, and yet the “ signorino 
inglese ” did not make his appearance. A crescent moon was 
already high in the eastern sky ; but its light was not yet strong 
enough to pale the love signals of the fireflies flitting singly to 
and fro in the blackness of the ilex-trees, or rising in joyous 
company from the lawns in front of the villa. The night air was 
fragrant with scent of rose, of lilies and honeysuckle, and of 
night-flowering creepers which had only begun to open their 
blossoms when the sun had sunk below the western hills of the 
Val d’Arno. In every patch of undergrowth a nightingale was 
singing to his sitting mate, while from the recesses of wooded 
banks rising above the gardens resounded the plaintive “chiii- 
chiu” of the little grey owls hawking for their food round the 
gnarled trunks of ancient olive-trees. The bells of the church at 
San Vico had long since tolled their solemn warning that the 
first hour of night had struck, and the warning had been taken up 
and repeated from village to village, from the Duomo of Fiesole 
to Santa Maria del Fiore, the deep-toned bell of whose campanile 
was booming above the noise of the tramcars and the shouting 
of the newspaper vendors in her own city of flowers lying beneath 
her fane. 

The coachman had changed his uneasy attitude more than 
once, and had blasphemed a great many times with all that 
comprehensive blasphemy for which a Florentine vetturino is 
famous among his kind ; but still it seemed doubtful how long he 
would be kept waiting, and when he would be able to get to his 

favourite osteria in the equivocal quarter of San Frediano. 

135 


136 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


Sonia di San Vico and Jim still lingered in the gardens of the 
villa. They had had their coffee after dinner out on the terrace 
on to which the windows of the marchesa’s sitting-room opened, 
and afterwards they had wandered about in the moonlit grounds, 
enjoying the voluptuous beauty of the early summer night — a 
beauty which seemed as though it must have been specially 
created in order to harmonise with their own mental and physical 
condition. Everything around them seemed to whisper of love 
and the joy of life — free and unfettered by the prejudices and 
social safeguards raised by man. Jim Sinclair felt as though he 
were in a dream. Throughout dinner he and Sonia had hardly 
interchanged a word, and both had felt as if in a kind of stupor 
of the senses which robbed them of the power of concentrated 
thought and made all attempts at conversation irksome to the 
last degree. Both of them, it is true, had made spasmodic 
efforts to talk, if only to keep up appearances before the old 
servant, Leopoldo, who must have wondered not a little at 
the constrained nature of their remarks and the suddenness 
with which they relapsed into silence. It had been a relief 
when the meal was ended and they were free to go on to the 
terrace where Leopoldo’s eyes would no longer be upon them. 
There, and in the gardens, they were absolutely alone, with no 
eyes to see them except those of the nightingales. The servants’ 
quarters were far away on the other side of the house ; and after 
Leopoldo had served the coffee Sonia told him that he need not 
return until she rang, which would be when the signore was ready 
to go to the carriage. In the gardens the sensuous beauty of the 
night, combined with the scent of the flowers and the passionate 
song of the nightingales, caused Jim to experience a feeling almost 
of oppression. Notwithstanding the loveliness which left no sense 
unappealed to or unsatisfied, he was vaguely conscious of a strange 
suggestion of sadness which seemed to be brooding over it ; and 
his mind became gradually invaded by a haunting sense of im- 
pending evil for which he tried in vain to account and which he 
found himself unable to shake off. 

“ How different your Italian summer nights are from our 
English ones,” he said to Sonia. “With us Nature seems to 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


137 


rest at night, but here everything seems to be just awakened 
from sleep. When we were in that loggia after luncheon every- 
thing was silent. I noticed that the flowers, even, had lost their 
smell. Now they all seem to have come to life again; but I 
feel as if I was surrounded by ghosts ! ” 

“ As to the ghosts,” said Sonia di San Vico lightly, “ I do 
not know at all what you mean. But it is true what you say of 
our nights. Everything wakes up a second time in Italy after 
sunset — human beings among the rest. Later in the summer 
you would be more struck by the sleeplessness of Nature during 
our nights than you are now.” 

“It is all very beautiful — too beautiful, almost,” Jim con- 
tinued. “ But I think I like our northern nights better. They 
are at all events more peaceful. Everything here is awake, and 
restless. I feel as though I were surrounded by people telling 
me depressing things ! ” He laughed — rather a constrained 
laugh. “ I am becoming sentimental ! ” he added ; “ talking 
rot, Sonia!” 

“I have not been telling you depressing things,” observed 
Sonia di San Vico. 

They were at the far end of the gardens, out of sight of the 
house and of everything save the creatures of the night, who, 
after all, were most of them occupied in the same manner as 
themselves. Jim took her in his arms. “You? no!” he 
exclaimed. “Sonia!” he added, “you cannot send me away 
from you for ever — now I You cannot put me out of your life! 
Tell me that you will not keep me to the conditions you insisted 
on my accepting.” 

She was silent. A nightingale from the depths of a thicket 
close beside them burst into a flood of melody, and their lips 
met in long, passionate kisses. 

“You do not answer!” said Jim presently. “That means 
you will not abide by your conditions ! ” 

Still she was silent; and lay, weak and unresisting, in his 
arms. Then, with a sudden effort, she disengaged herself from 
them and turned away, gazing into the sombre shadows of 
the trees. 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


138 


“ I shall abide by them,” she said at length, almost coldly. 

Jim Sinclair swore an oath under his breath. “Then I will 
not ! ” he burst out. “ It is absurd — impossible. Are you 
afraid, perhaps, that I shall compromise your good name ? Ah, 
no, Sonia, you need not be afraid. I would be very careful 
never to do that. Only tell me that, when I have to leave you, 
it will not be as you said — that you will call me back to you 
when you think it safe to do so.” 

Sonia di San Vico shook her head. “No,” she replied 
resolutely, “ and again, no ! You promised to abide by my 
conditions. You will not break your word — that I know. It 
would be ungentlemanlike — vile ! You could not do it, and 
you are not stopping to reflect on what you say. Would you 
deceive a woman who has trusted to your honour ? ” 

Jim Sinclair looked at her for a moment or two in silence. 
“ No,” he said presently, “ I would not. But ” 

“There are no buts ! You think it hard now. Afterwards 
you will be glad.” 

“ And you — you, Sonia ? ” 

“What does it matter about me? You have given me what 
I wanted — you have made me live ! Nothing can rob me of 
that. To-morrow — next day, perhaps — I shall have you still ; 
and then you will pass out of my life, and I out of yours. 
Believe me, it is better so. Besides, you have promised it, so 
there is no more to be said ! ” 

“I wish I could understand,” Jim said wearily. “You are 
hard, cruelly hard, in binding me to a promise which you 
exacted from me — oh, I do not say under false pretences, but 
under conditions which no man who was not made of cast-iron 
would have been able to resist. But, as you appeal to my 
honour, what can I do? I can only submit. All the same, 
remember — remember always — that this is not how I would 
have behaved by you had you allowed me to do otherwise.” 

“ I shall remember,” Sonia said slowly. “ You, too,” she 
added, “ will remember in the future, and you will be glad that I 
forced you to give this promise, and that you were loyal enough 
to your word — and to me — to keep it.” 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


i39 


The dock in the centre of the fagade of the Villa San Vico 
struck four times on a cracked and most unmusical bell, and 
these four strokes were followed after a few seconds by eleven 
more. Sonia turned quickly towards the house. “ Eleven 
o’clock ! ” she exclaimed, “ and your carriage has been waiting 
since half-past nine. I must send you away from me — but for 
to-night only. To-morrow we shall be together again, and per- 
haps for several days more. But now you must go. Yes, once 
more before we return to the house, and then you must be 
discreet. Do not look so miserable, twelve hours are not so 
long in passing ! Leopoldo will be wondering why you have 
not long ago taken your departure ; and as to your vetturino, he 
will have exhausted his bestemmie by now, and will have begun 
his vocabulary afresh ! ” 

Jim followed her across the gardens without a word, and 
they re-entered the sitting-room by the open window. Sonia 
rang, and Leopoldo appeared with a promptness which suggested 
that he had not had to come from the other side of the house to 
answer it. 

“ £ pronta la vettura ? ” she asked of the old man. 

“ Eccellenza, si ! gik un pezzo ” 

Sonia turned to Jim and held out her hand. “ A demain, 
alors — k la meme heure, n’est-ce pas?” She spoke in French 
purposely, knowing that her servant understood it. Jim wished 
her a muttered good night in English, adding that he would be 
delighted to return before luncheon on the morrow, a politeness 
which was quite unnecessary, since Leopoldo, holding the door 
open for him, had not the least idea what he might be saying. 
The old servant escorted him to the carriage with the same 
dignity as he had ushered him into Sonia’s presence ; and in a 
few more minutes Jim had passed out of the gates of the Villa 
San Vico and was driving rapidly down to Fiesole. In a quarter 
of an hour more he had reached the long descent into the Val 
d’Arno. Countless twinkling lights, and the slender campanile 
of the Duomo rising aloft into the violet sky showed where 
Florence lay ; the moonlight gleaming white on the long line of 
buildings bordering the Lungarni “ oltr’ Arno,” on the facade of 


140 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


San Miniato, and bathing the cypress-crowned heights of Monte 
alle Croci, the resting-place of beloved dead lying peacefully 
beneath the shadow of the hills encircling their temporary home 
in this world. 

The impatient coachman whipped up his horses, and very 
soon the carriage was rattling through the streets of the city and 
down the Lungarno on which Jim Sinclair’s hotel was situated. 
The porter met him at the door of the hotel as he was alighting, 
and handed him a telegram, which, he informed him, had 
arrived soon after Jim’s departure that morning- 

Jim tore it open hurriedly. It was from the adjutant of his 
regiment, and was laconic enough. 

“ Return immediately,” it said. “ Regiment recalled home.” 

Jim Sinclair’s face must have betrayed the consternation he 
felt at reading the words, for the porter ventured to express the 
hope that the telegram had not brought him bad news. 

“ Yes — that is to say, no ! ” Jim replied hastily. “ It is a 
message summoning me back to my regiment in Malta at once. 
An inconvenience, of course ! Kindly send a waiter to find my 
servant. I must see him directly.” No trifling, and no delay 
were, as Jim well knew, possible where an order of such a 
nature was concerned. His duty was to take the next train to 
Rome, and retrace the journey he had made but twenty-four 
hours previously. The porter, a practical German-Swiss, went 
into his office and returned with a time-table. It would be 
impossible, he declared, to catch the last train leaving for Rome 
that night. It was already considerably past midnight, and the 
“diretto” to Rome was due to leave before Jim could get to 
the station, even were he to start without his luggage. Another 
train left for Rome at seven in the morning, and he would be 
in Naples by six o’clock in the evening. From Naples to 
Reggio? — yes; he would leave Naples again at seven, and be 
at Reggio the following morning at the same hour, always pro- 
vided that the train from Florence did not miss the connection 
at Rome. 

In any case, it was out of the question that he could start 
before the morning. Curse the authorities! They might just 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


141 

as well have waited another week — another day, even, when 
they had kept the regiment dawdling at Malta doing nothing 
for six months. 

What would Sonia say? Would she think he had bolted 
after having got what he wanted ? Ah, no ! she would never 
think that. Besides, he would send her the telegram out to 
San Vico early the next morning, and she would see for herself 
what had happened. If he could only go out himself, and see 
her once again ! Even a delay of a few hours would be some- 
thing — it would enable him to go to her. 

At this moment Ezio appeared upon the scene, and Jim 
hurriedly explained the situation to him. The discussion which 
ensued could scarcely be reproduced. Broken English from 
Ezio, whose knowledge of the language did not extend to em- 
ploying it in emergencies, and bad Italian from the German porter 
anxious to help Ezio in his difficulties, did not tend to simplify 
the conversation. Ezio, however, with his quick Sicilian wit, 
had a sudden inspiration, for which Jim blessed him. It was 
no use, he declared, leaving Florence in a hurry, only to arrive 
at Siracusa and find that they would have to wait there perhaps 
twenty-four hours before the steamer left for Malta. The best 
thing, therefore, to be done was to ascertain what day and hour 
the steamer started, and so arrange as to be at Siracusa in good 
time to catch it. Jim welcomed the suggestion as a possible 
means whereby he might after all be enabled to rush out to 
San Vico, see Sonia again, and yet take a later train from 
Florence, which would not make any difference in the day or 
hour he would eventually reach Malta. The porter and Ezio 
searched the time-tables diligently, while Jim paced restlessly 
backwards and forwards in the hall of the hotel waiting for the 
result. It was not what he had hoped for. Only by leaving 
Florence by the earlier train at seven the next morning could 
he be sure of being at Syracuse in time to catch the steamer. 
If he took the afternoon train to Rome, he would almost 
certainly have to wait at Syracuse for twelve hours. Jim cursed 
freely. The porter looked at him stolidly; but Ezio’s glance 
was full of sympathy. The boy came up to him with the 


142 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


evident intention of drawing him aside so as not to be over- 
heard. It was a brutta combinazione — a dam nuisance — he 
observed confidentially ; and Jim, worried as he was, burst 
out laughing. 

“ It is all that, Ezio ! ” he said. 

Ezio hesitated. “The signore would pardon him,” he con- 
tinued presently, “ but was it not true that he was to have gone 
again to-morrow to visit the marchesa di San Vico at her villa ? ” 

Jim looked at him quickly. “Yes,” he said sharply. “Why?” 

“ It would be easy for the signore to say that he had not 
received the telegram in time to leave Florence by the first train 
to-morrow ; and so he could go to San Vico all the same.” 

“ It would be easy,” replied Jim quietly ; “ but it wouldn’t 
be true. You don’t understand, Ezio. I am bound not to lose 
an hour unnecessarily in obeying the orders contained in this 
telegram. As it is, I may very likely get into a scrape for having 
extended my journey as far as Florence, when I was supposed to 
be only going to Sicily.” 

Ezio gave a scarcely perceptible shrug of the shoulders. 
“Nevertheless,” he observed, “the signora marchesa will wonder 
why the signore does not appear to-morrow.” 

“ Of course she will wonder ! ” said Jim, “ and somehow or 
other I must communicate with her before I leave.” 

“ If the signore wishes, I will take a carriage out to San Vico 
at once with a letter ? ” 

“Impossible! You would get there at two in the morning,” 
replied Jim. That, indeed, he thought, would be likely to com- 
promise Sonia in the eyes of the household. “ If only that con- 
founded train did not leave so early,” he continued, “ I should go 
out to San Vico myself. But that, too, is out of the question.” 

“ The signore can send me,” said Ezio. “ I will pack the 
things to-night, so that all would be ready. It is light by four 
o’clock now, and by half-past four I could be at San Vico. 
Somebody will be about at that hour ; in the country people rise 
early. The signora marchesa would receive the letter by five, 
and immediately afterwards I could return here, or meet the 
signore at the railway station, which would be better.” 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


M3 

“ By Jove ! ” exclaimed Jim, “ it is not a bad plan. But it is 
an impossible hour to disturb the marchesa.” 

“Five o’clock? It is nothing!” returned Ezio carelessly. 
“ At any rate,” he added, “ the signore, if he must leave, will be 
easier in his mind. But if I were he I should not leave till to- 
morrow night, and say that I had not received the message in 
time to take the earlier train. Who would know, except myself? 
and certainly I would not betray the signore.” 

“ Be quiet, Ezio ! ” said Jim sternly. “ I shall leave at seven 
to-morrow morning, whatever happens. Do not mention that 
subject again, or you will make me angry — do you understand ? 
Now, as to this plan of yours. How will you get a carriage to 
take you out to San Vico so early ? ” 

Ezio called the porter, and an animated discussion took place 
between the two. 

Jim was presently informed that a carriage could doubtless be 
procured. The porter would telephone at once to the livery- 
stable which supplied the hotel, and if he could not get an answer 
he would send a messenger. It would be a mere question of 
charges, and of a generous “mancia” to the driver. Jim con- 
sidered for a moment. There seemed to be no better way of 
communicating with Sonia. The only alternative would be to 
write to her a letter, which she would get after his departure. 
No ; he could not do that. It would be horrible to leave with- 
out a word from her — without knowing she realised that he could 
not do otherwise than obey without a moment’s delay the orders 
he had received. He must trust Ezio, and hope that he would 
be loyal enough not to make any mischief out of the matter, or 
gossip in such a way as to compromise Sonia. There was no 
particular reason why he should talk ; and if he did, it would 
be only in Malta, where the marchesa di San Vico’s name would 
convey nothing to anybody. After much ringing on the tele- 
phone, and innumerable repetitions of “ Pronto ! ” and “ Con 
chi parlo ? ” on the part of the porter, mingled with guttural ex- 
pletives concerning the imbecility of livery-stable keepers gene- 
rally, it was finally arranged that a light vehicle of some kind and 
a pair of good horses should be at the hotel at four o’clock in the 


144 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


morning to take a messenger bearing an urgent communication 
out to San Vico. The price demanded was, as Ezio expressed it, 
“salato” ; but Jim readily agreed to it, and offered, moreover, a 
handsome tip to the driver provided he came punctually to the 
hour named, and that the horses were all that was promised. 
The matter settled, he retired to his room, while Ezio occupied 
himself with packing. The letter he wrote to Sonia required 
many rough drafts before it was edited to Jim’s satisfaction. 
Even when finished he read it again and again, and left it open 
until the last moment, when he enclosed the telegram, sealed it, 
and consigned it to Ezio’s charge. Ezio, he felt, must certainly 
have his own ideas as to the reasons underlying so much urgency, 
but something had to be risked in such an emergency. The boy 
was so quietly sympathetic in his manner, without being the least 
curious or obtrusive — so quick and intelligent, so evidently pleased 
at being trusted to do an important mission for his padrone, that 
Jim felt convinced he had not done foolishly in acting upon his 
suggestion. 

Sleep that night was out of the question. The windows of 
his room overlooked the Lungarno, and Jim spent most of the 
time watching for the dawn, and listening to the noise of the 
water rushing over the weir which stretched across the river im- 
mediately beneath the hotel. 

Punctually at four o’clock, he heard from afar the wheels of 
the carriage which was to take his missive to San Vico, and at 
the same time Ezio entered his room. He consigned the letter 
to him, with final instructions that Ezio should rejoin him at the 
railway station, and there give him the note which no doubt the 
marchesa would send back. After the carriage had driven 
away, a great restlessness seized him, and it seemed impossible 
to remain in the hotel. He went downstairs, and a sleepy night- 
porter, after staring at him with considerable amazement, let him 
out of the great doors. Not a living creature was visible along 
the whole length of the Lungarno, and almost mechanically Jim 
bent his steps towards the Piazza del Duomo, whither he had 
already wandered on the evening of his arrival in Florence. The 
great cathedral seemed like a fairy edifice in the uncertain light 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


i4S 


of the dawn, and as he approached it a rosy light fell upon the 
mighty cupola and spread gradually downwards until the marbles 
and mosaics of the facade glowed like jewels in the rays of the 
newly-risen sun. But even this spectacle was not more beautiful, 
and certainly not more characteristic, than the scene which greeted 
his eyes at an angle of the piazza whence the Via Cavour leads 
down to San Gallo. There, in front of a caffe, cart after cart 
discharged its load of flowers — roses, lilies, iris, heliotrope, wild- 
flowers of every variety and every hue — until the whole side of 
the square was transformed by a blaze of colour and the whole 
air scented with perfume. Notwithstanding his preoccupation, 
Jim stood transfixed with pleasure and astonishment, as well he 
might. He had unconsciously stumbled on one of the most 
beautiful spring and early summer sights of Florence — a sight 
which not one foreigner in ten thousand sees, nor knows of its 
existence, and which countless Florentines themselves have never 
witnessed. And yet morning after morning during the beautiful 
Tuscan spring Our Lady of the Flowers receives her daily tribute, 
brought in during the cool hours of the night from all the sur- 
rounding country, and deposited at dawn at the very steps of her 
sanctuary, thence to be distributed among the various dealers and 
markets of the city. Nowhere in the world, probably, is there a 
scene more beautiful than this, so full of graceful, poetic senti- 
ment. The peasants handle the blossoms as if they loved them. 
There is no noise, no confusion, no blaspheming, even — a rare 
thing in Florence. One by one the carts roll up, emerging from 
every corner of the piazza, and the patient horses and mules stand 
still while their flowery burdens are unladen, and the great bells 
boom from the lofty campanile above as though saluting the 
emblems of their patroness. 

But the scene soon changes. The flower-merchants are early 
on the spot, and with them Mammon and the barter of the 
Madonna’s tribute for filthy lucre. It is well to leave the piazza 
before the work of sacrilege begins, carrying away an armful of 
roses and lilies with the morning dew still upon them, and unsoiled 
by the contamination of the city. 

Jim returned to his hotel, and thence he went betimes to the 
io 


146 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


railway station. A few minutes before seven Ezio arrived breath- 
less. They had broken a trace, he informed Jim, or he would 
have been there before. Sicuro ! he had had no difficulty in 
getting in at the Villa San Vico ; and on hearing that the letter 
was urgent, it had been at once taken to the signora marchesa 
by an old woman — very ugly. More than that, the marchesa 
had herself come down to see him, and had given him a letter 
for the signore. 

Jim snatched it from him and tore it open. It contained but 
a few words. 

“ Go. It is for the best. You are doing your duty as a 
loyal soldier, and as a trusted friend. Sonia.” 


CHAPTER XIII 


ITHONY CUTHBERT had only recently returned to 



Jr\ Cuthbertsheugh after an absence of more than five months. 
Contrary to his usual custom, his travels that spring had taken 
him no further than Paris. He had left Northumberland at 
the end of January, and had spent three months in London, 
after which he had taken a small apartment in the Rue de 
Perouse, a quiet street opening out of the Champs Elysees. He 
had many friends in Paris, belonging to the literary and artistic 
world, as well as others belonging to the so-called world of 
society. Indeed, he was one of the very few Englishmen who 
have ever mastered the subtleties of the French language so as 
to speak it really well and grammatically, and it was seldom or 
never that his accent betrayed him to be a foreigner. He was 
equally at home in the atelier of a painter or sculptor, in the 
study of a politician, and in the drawing-room of a fashionable 
woman of the world — in short, there were few elements making 
up the heterogeneous mass of Parisian society with which he was 
not more or less intimately acquainted. He had remained in the 
French capital until the end of June, and in the early days of 
July had wearied of the hot and dusty streets of London and 
betaken himself to the fresher air and healthier surroundings of 
his Northumbrian home. 

There were other reasons, too, why he wished to be at 
Cuthbertsheugh. Jim Sinclair’s regiment had returned to Eng- 
land in the middle of May, though Jim himself had not been 
able to leave its depot. In July, however, long leave would be 
granted him, and Anthony was anxious that his nephew should 
spend at least a portion of it at Cuthbertsheugh. That summer 
was unusually fine and hot, and Cuthbertsheugh was looking at 
its best. The terraced gardens, which in consequence of the 


148 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


length of the cold Northumbrian spring rarely arrived at their 
full perfection until August, were this year at the height of their 
glory, and it had actually been not only possible but also agree- 
able to stroll about them after dinner, and to remain out of doors 
until the long Northern twilight reluctantly yielded to the shades 
of night. Everybody at Cuthbertsheugh was jubilant in conse- 
quence. Even the farmers forgot to grumble, looking forward to 
an abundant harvest which should make up for the disasters of 
past years. Stock had thriven ; and with it the weakly lambs 
which the snows and icy winds of April and even of May had 
threatened at one time to decimate. Most jubilant of all, per- 
haps,; was Anthony Cuthbert’ s head-keeper. The young pheas- 
ants had done splendidly ; and even the grouse, whose early 
broods had suffered as much as the lambs, and from the same 
causes, would be considerably above their average both in num- 
bers and in the quantity of strong young birds. In other years 
the keeper’s enthusiasm had often been not a little damped by 
the insufficient interest which Mr. Cuthbert displayed in his 
department. It was true that Anthony liked to provide his 
guests with a good show of what the keeper callously designated 
as “ stuff ” on the occasion of his shooting parties, and that he 
was annoyed if disease or other accidents prevented such a show ; 
but his interest had gradually become purely impersonal and 
detached, and the keeper had been quick to note the fact and 
resent it. 

This summer, however, one of Anthony’s first acts on coming 
to Cuthbertsheugh had been to send for the head-keeper and 
inquire minutely into the accounts of his stewardship. He had 
himself visited the enclosures in which the young pheasants were 
being reared, and had also assisted at their feeding on more than 
one hot summer evening, so as to verify for himself the reports 
on their numbers and condition. He had also ridden over the 
moors belonging to the estate and taken stock of the grouse and 
black-game — and had severely reprimanded under-keepers when 
he had discovered traps which had not been punctually visited, 
and, worse than all, the existence of pole-traps — a form of 
barbarity which he had absolutely forbidden, as he had forbidden 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


149 


the destruction of many creatures against which the average 
keeper, in his ignorance of their habits, wages war as vermin. 
Needless to say, everybody on the domain was perfectly well 
aware that this revival of interest on Mr. Cuthbert’s part was 
due to the fact that “Misto-r-r James” had returned to England 
and would spend a considerable portion of the shooting season 
at Cuthbertsheugh. Indeed, Anthony was indefatigable in making 
arrangements for his nephew’s enjoyment. He had even journeyed 
to York in order to inspect horses which would be required so 
soon as the cub-hunting should have begun ; and had paid, too, 
a long price for more than one of the animals which had been 
shown him, and which had found favour both in his eyes and 
in those of his stud-groom who accompanied him. It was by 
this time the middle of July ; Anthony Cuthbert told himself with 
considerable satisfaction that, unless unforeseen impediments 
should occur, Jim ought to have as good a time in the way of 
sport during the coming autumn as the county of Northumber- 
land could produce. The grouse were plentiful ; the pheasants 
had done well beyond all expectation ; litters of foxes, he was 
informed, were almost too numerous ; and, last but not least, 
it was reported that for several seasons there had not been seen 
such numbers of salmon as were jostling each other in their 
“playing grounds” below Tynemouth, only waiting for a flood 
in order to run up the river. Anthony possessed a certain 
amount of property on the northern branch of the Tyne above 
Hexham, up which, as all Northumbrians and many who are 
not so know, salmon prefer to run rather than keep to the 
main stream rising on the Cumbrian border. He was the 
owner of four or five famous pools in that part of the country ; 
and though, especially on blank days, “the ways are sair frae 
the Till to the Tyne” and the cross-country journey was no 
inconsiderable one, yet it was feasible enough for any keen 
fisherman who did not object to early rising and the local service 
of the North British Railway Company. 

At length the day came to which Anthony Cuthbert had long 
looked forward, and Jim, travelling from London, arrived at 
Cuthbertsheugh in time for a late dinner. The meeting between 


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ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


the uncle and nephew was typical of the British aversion from 
any kind of demonstrativeness; but it was lacking neither 
in cordiality nor genuine affection. At dinner that night Jim 
was in the best of spirits. He was delighted to find himself 
again at Cuthbertsheugh ; and Anthony experienced a thrill of 
pleasure at realising that his nephew was the same, natural, light- 
hearted, and plain-spoken young fellow from whom he had parted 
months ago at Southampton. It was not till the following day 
that his keen observation detected a change in Jim. At first he 
supposed that the boy was merely tired — or, perhaps, that ten 
days spent in London after several months’ exile at Malta might 
be responsible for a certain listlessness and depression of spirits 
which he had never before noticed in him. During his last visit 
to Cuthbertsheugh Jim had certainly never been either silent 
or reserved. Now, however, Anthony Cuthbert noticed that at 
times he was both the one and the other. As the days passed, 
and the first excitement of returning to what Anthony lost no 
opportunity of impressing upon him was his home wore off, these 
periodical fits of depression seemed to become more frequent, 
and Anthony grew uneasy. Was the boy in love, he wondered — 
or had he been gambling, or got into some scrape? For all 
three there was probably a remedy to be found, if Jim would 
only confide in him and make a clean breast of the trouble, 
whatever it might be. It was more probable, he thought, that 
Jim was in love — possibly with some altogether undesirable 
young woman. If he had been a gambler, he would have 
gambled in India. The explanation of his altered demeanour 
must be undoubtedly due either to a love aflair, or to a scrape. 
Both were unfortunate; but either, in the general way, could 
be got over by time and common sense. 

Anthony was not a man to attempt to force another’s con- 
fidence. Nevertheless he questioned Jim freely about his life at 
Malta, hoping that his nephew’s answers might afford him some 
clue to the mystery. 

“ By the way,” he said to him suddenly one hot afternoon a 
day or two after Jim’s arrival, “you wrote and told me last May 
that you had got a week or two’s leave, and that you were think- 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


I5 1 

ing of going across to Sicily. But you never alluded again to 
your expedition in your subsequent letters. Did you get there 
after all ? ” 

“Oh yes,” Jim replied, “ I went to Syracuse.” 

“Yes; and then, I suppose you went on to Palermo, or at 
any rate to Messina and Catania ? Syracuse is all very well for a 
couple of days ; but I shouldn’t care to be there very long.” 

“ I went to Florence,” said Jim briefly. 

“To Florence !” exclaimed Anthony. “That was a far cry 
from Malta. What took you there, Jim? Have you any friends 
in Florence ? ” 

Jim did not answer the last question. “ Well,” he said, 
hesitating a little, “ you see I had never seen anything of Italy, and 
so I thought Florence was as good a place to go to as anywhere 
else. Everbody has seen Florence, and one feels an idiot not 
to have seen it oneself.” 

“Why not Rome, then? You would have had a shorter 
journey, and Rome is the first place anybody ought to see who 
has not seen it.” 

“Yes, I thought of stopping in Rome, but I was dead sick 
of Malta, and wanted to get as far from the beastly place as I 
could. I had been seedy too — a return of that fever I got in 
India — and Rome isn’t a very healthy place, is it ? People get 
Roman fever.” 

“ No, they don’t,” returned Anthony Cuthbert. “ They get 
chills on their livers from stuffing themselves with meat as they 
do in England and drinking Roman wine on the top of it. Then 
they write to their friends and say they have Roman fever. It 
sounds more romantic than saying they have overeaten them- 
selves.” 

While he was delivering himself of this truth, Anthony was 
saying to himself, “Some woman at Malta, I suppose. No 
very desirable wife for him there, I should say ! Heaven grant he 
hasn’t fallen in love with somebody else’s wife — his colonel’s, for 
instance — or some folly of that kind.” 

“ Anyhow,” said Jim, “ I preferred Florence.” 

“ You never told me anything about it,” resumed Anthony, 


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ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


“whether you liked Italy, or what you did with yourself. I 
wonder how you got on without knowing any Italian ? But then 
I wonder the same thing about the majority of people who go to 
Italy under similar circumstances, and then come back believing 
themselves thoroughly competent to criticise the Italians.” 

“ It was not worth while writing to you about it,” Jim observed. 
“ I had no sooner got to Florence than I had to come back 
again, and a more damnable journey than from Naples to Reggio 
I don’t know ! I did tell you, if you remember, that I was 
telegraphed for to return some days sooner than I had expected, 
because the regiment was at last allowed to go home.” 

The subject dropped. Indeed, Jim abruptly changed it by 
suggesting that after tea, when it would be cooler, they should go 
for a long ride, returning to a cold supper which might be eaten 
at any hour. 

As a matter of fact he had not alluded in his letters to any- 
thing concerning his expedition to Sicily, and still less to having 
extended his travels as far as Florence. Absolute silence regard- 
ing the whole episode connected with those few days was, he told 
himself, the only honourable attitude for him to assume, and the 
only one, moreover, which would give him the consolation of 
feeling that he was faithful to the trust which had been reposed 
in him. Fortunately, his journey back to Malta had been free 
from all delays. He had arrived there as fast as trains and 
steamer would carry him. Fortunately, also, he had not been 
reprimanded for having extended his journey so far afield as 
Florence, as he had greatly feared might have been the case, 
and which no doubt would have been so had he not been able to 
report himself in the shortest possible time after the despatch of 
the telegram recalling him to duty. As it turned out, no questions 
had been asked him, and no explanation of his change of plans 
had been necessary. Ezio, too, had so far as he knew been dis- 
cretion itself, and Jim hoped and believed that the fact of his 
meeting the marchesa di San Vico could never be known or 
guessed at by any one likely to make a tale concerning it. 

He himself had suffered, and was suffering acutely. He had 
no sooner taken the inevitable but to him most difficult step of 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


153 


leaving Florence without again seeing Sonia di San Vico than he 
knew that his feeling for her was something more than mere 
passion. Reaction from passion had speedily set in, and ever 
since he had left San Vico his heart had been a prey, not, indeed, 
to remorse, but to a vain regret that his passion had had so 
premature an opportunity of satisfying itself. At the moment, 
when he had made the choice which Sonia had offered him, he 
had felt that it would be impossible to wait indefinitely for a 
satisfaction which was his that very day if he elected to take it. 
Afterwards, he would have given worlds that Sonia would have 
allowed him to choose as he had wished to choose, and that he 
had insisted on delay. Delay would at least have given him 
the opportunity of proving to her that he could be faithful — that 
his love, however suddenly it had been born, was not merely 
of that kind which demanded the instant gratification of its 
more material side. Who could tell that some accident might 
not have rendered her a free woman, able to marry again if she 
chose ? or, seeing that his love for her was strong enough to wait, 
she herself might in time have conquered her prejudice against 
obtaining a divorce in some foreign country, and so have been 
free to marry him, if not in a church, at least legally. But, as 
it was, she had practically given him no choice. She had made 
him act like some animal, quick to satisfy its passion, and equally 
quick to forget. And yet, he was certain that she loved him. 
For some reason of her own which he could not fathom, she 
had made him leave her — or would have made him leave her in 
a few days had he not been compelled to do so before. The 
thing was incredible — repellent, even — and yet, it was so ! It 
was so, and being so, his only honourable course was absolute 
silence — absolute adherence to the conditions under which she 
had given herself to him, and which he had accepted, seeing no 
other hope left. Some day, perhaps, she might reward that 
adherence, and, freeing herself, tell him to come to her again. 

With his mind in this state, it was no wonder if Jim Sinclair 
was not the same careless, boyish individual he had been when 
he was last at Cuthbertsheugh. He strove to fight against 
the periodical fits of silence and depression which he could see 


*54 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


were noticed by Anthony, partly because he dreaded lest Anthony 
should openly ask him what it was that troubled him, and partly 
because he would have given anything he possessed to be able to 
confide in an older man, who not only lost no opportunity of 
showing his affection for him, but was also a man of the world, 
who would not pretend to be scandalised, or attempt to moralise 
on the situation in which he found himself. He knew that 
Anthony must suspect his want of confidence, even though he 
might never try to force it; and the feeling that his uncle and 
friend would infallibly come to regard this want of confidence as 
an ingratitude weighed every day more heavily upon him. 

Though Anthony Cuthbert refrained from putting any ques- 
tions which could embarrass his nephew, he did on one occasion 
ask him, with an assumption of carelessness, perhaps a little too 
marked to be natural, whether by any chance he were “ hard up.” 
“ If you are,” he added, smiling, “ for goodness’ sake say so ! 
Though you have not a bad income between the money you 
have of your own and the addition to it that I give you, you may 
have been overdrawing, or want some ready cash which the bank 
doesn’t see its way to advance to you. Perhaps you would find 
me more amenable than Messrs. Cox, if this should be the case/ 

Jim shook his head. “ It is awfully good of you,” he re- 
plied ; “ but I believe my balance is larger than it has ever been 
before ! I didn’t spend much at Malta — chiefly because there 
was nothing to spend money upon, I suppose. You are much 
too generous to me as it is, Anthony ; and, if I did want money, 
I should think a good many times before asking you for it, for 
that very reason ! ” 

“ I should think you an ungrateful young brute if you didn’t 
come to me if you were in a hole, and were worrying yourself as 
to how to get out of it,” returned Anthony Cuthbert. 

He spoke as if jestingly, but all the same his words made Jim 
wince. From that moment Anthony seemed as though he were 
almost nervous of making any remark which might sound as if 
he were trying to oblige Jim to trust him with his more intimate 
concerns ; and from that moment, too, Jim felt conscious that 
the old simple confidence between them which had existed in 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


155 


his boyish days, and which it had been so pleasant to take up 
again when he returned from India as a man, was no longer 
either so natural or so spontaneous as it was. His uncle, it was 
true, was genial and kind as ever ; but an indefinable “ some- 
thing ” in his manner, which certainly did not amount to resent- 
ment, made Jim long more than ever to be able to tell him all 
his trouble. Sometimes he thought that he would make a half 
confidence, and tell Anthony that he had had a serious affair 
with a married woman whom he had followed to Florence, but 
who had refused to see him again. But then he reflected that 
even this might be dangerous. Anthony, who had known 
Florence and Florentine society so well in the past, might 
unwittingly make mischief. He, Jim, would only have to lie, 
lest Sonia di San Vico’s identity should in some way be dis- 
covered; and, on the whole, he preferred that Anthony should 
think him ungrateful on account of his silence rather than be 
compelled to lie to him. The days passed; and the cloud 
which had risen between them, if it did not yet entirely dissipate 
itself, at all events grew no larger. Anthony, indeed, had 
reasoned somewhat severely with himself. He was convinced 
that a woman was at the bottom of the whole matter — and that 
most probably she was a married woman. In this case, the boy 
no doubt felt himself bound in honour not to take anybody into 
his confidence, and was, after all, behaving as an honourable 
gentleman should. He only hoped that the lady were not a 
brother-officer’s wife — and, least of all, the colonel’s wife. He 
was extremely anxious that Jim should retire from the regular 
army, and fully intended to renew his suggestions on that point 
at a fitting opportunity. Nevertheless, he had certainly no 
desire that the sending in of Jim’s papers should be suggested 
by anybody else than himself. The best thing, Anthony told 
himself, was to say nothing, and to affect not to be aware that 
anything was amiss. Time, and very probably the lady herself, 
would cure the lad of his troubles. 

The weather became hotter as July went on. Exercise was 
only pleasant late in the afternoons, and dinner at eight o’clock 
was a relic of civilisation not to be thought of on such glorious 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


156 

summer evenings. Anthony usually had tea brought out into 
the gardens, after which he and Jim would ride or otherwise 
amuse themselves out of doors until nine ; and sometimes it was 
even ten o’clock before they returned to a cold supper. The 
second post arrived late at Cuthbertsheugh, a man having to be 
sent on horseback to the little local post-office to fetch it. It 
was later than usual one evening when, having finished their tea, 
the two were about to start off for a ride over the hills in the direc- 
tion of Chillingham. A servant emerged from the house with a 
salver, on which was a goodly pile of correspondence, and placed 
it on the table beside them. There was one letter only for Jim, 
who, after glancing at it, thrust it into his pocket unopened. “A 
bill,” he observed laconically. “ It can very well wait ! ” 

Anthony Cuthbert proceeded leisurely to turn over the 
numerous letters addressed to himself; most of which he, too, 
put aside to be taken into his study. One, however, bearing 
a French stamp, he opened. He recognised the handwriting 
of an old friend, an Italian living in Paris, known throughout 
the artistic world as the possessor of an historic gallery of pictures 
in his family palace in Rome, and for a cause dllbre that had 
taken place respecting one or two of the most valuable among 
them, which had been sold without the knowledge or consent 
of the Italian government and taken out of the country. During 
his recent stay in Paris, Anthony had become enamoured of a 
Corot, for which, however, the dealer to whom it belonged asked 
him a price he knew to be preposterous. He had finally left 
the affair in the hands of his friend, who had promised that he 
would, if time were allowed him, obtain the picture for Anthony 
for a more reasonable sum. Anthony read the letter hastily, 
and uttered an exclamation of impatience. “Those damned 
Americans ! ” he said. “ They spoil the market wherever they 
go ! Oh, it is nothing particular,” he added, as Jim asked 
what had happened. “ Only, I had set my heart on a picture 
in Paris, and had asked a friend of mine there to try and buy 
it for me at a fair price. Now he writes to say that, although 
he was in treaty for it with the dealer, it has been sold over his 
head to a Yankee millionaire for more than half as much again 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


157 

as it is really worth. Annoying ! but poor English landowners 
can’t compete against pork and ‘ canned meats ’ ! ” 

Anthony was in the act of folding up the letter, when his eye 
was caught by a postscript on the reverse side of its last page. 

“ God in heaven ! ” he suddenly exclaimed as he read it. 
This time there could be no question that something had 
genuinely upset him, for Jim, startled by the tone of his voice, 
saw that he had become very pale. With the unreasoning 
fear inspired by guilty consciences, Jim for a moment feared 
that the letter contained some allusion to himself and Sonia di 
San Vico. 

“ What is it ? ” he asked quickly. 

Anthony did not reply for a few seconds, and when he did, 
it was to ask a question which puzzled Jim still more. “What 
is to-day ? ” he demanded ; “ Thursday, is it not ? ”, 

“ Yes : what in the world has happened, Anthony ? Bad 
news is not generally kept until the end of a letter, and I’m 
afraid you have had bad news ! ” 

“Bad news?” repeated Anthony, as if to himself; “is it 
bad news ? Upon my soul, I don’t quite know ! though there 
was a time when I should have thought it the best of all possible 
news. Jim, go into the house, will you? and ring the bell; 
and when the servant comes tell him I want — let me see,” and 
he glanced at the date of the letter — “yes, Monday’s London 
paper, the Times, it is always filed.” Jim hurried away, and 
Anthony read and re-read the postscript which had so much 
disturbed him. 

“ By-the-bye,” it ran, “ I suppose you will have seen in your 
English papers the terrible accident on the P.L.M. to the Turin 
and Paris express, early on Sunday morning, between Dijon and 
Laroche. Thirteen people killed outright, and numbers injured. 
The Parisians declare that P.L.M. stands for Pour la Morgue ! 
Oddly enough, among the killed is that prince of scoundrels and 
scoundrel among princes, del Monte. He was bolting from 
Italy, as he would have been arrested for fraud had he remained 
there. They tell me at the embassy here that he has lost every 
sou of his poor wife’s fortune, as well as his own and a great 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


158 

deal of other people’s money — and there are other iniquities laid 
to his charge as well. Falconieri, the councillor of our embassy 
here, tells me that del Monte’s widow — how thankful she must 
be to be a widow! — will be absolutely penniless. Au revoir, 
my dear friend. I am just leaving for my cure at Carlsbad ; the 
heat in Paris is intolerable. If I am in England this autumn, ask 
me to your delightful place with the unpronounceable name in 
an unpronounceable county ! ” 

Jim Sinclair returned with the newspaper in his hand, and 
Anthony hurriedly spread it out, searching its columns. 

His eye soon caught the heading in large type: “Terrible 
disaster on the Paris, Lyons, and Mediterranean Railway to the 
Turin express — English victims.” 

“ Several English people,” the account went on to say, “ and 
a large number of Italians were among the killed and injured. 
Among the Italians are various members of the Italian nobility, 
including Prince del Monte, of Rome.” 

Anthony pointed out the paragraph to his nephew without 
speaking. 

“ Somebody was in the train whom you knew ? ” asked Jim. 
“ I am so awfully sorry, Anthony ! I wish it had not come as 
such a shock to you.” 

Anthony pointed again to the last words of the account. 

“ Prince del Monte,” Jim read out. “ A friend of yours ?” 

“ A friend ! ” burst out Anthony Cuthbert. “ Good God, 
no ! Have you forgotten what I told you when you were last 
here, Jim ? Do you not know who del Monte’s wife is — was ? ” 

Jim gave a low whistle of amazement. “ Of course I re- 
member ! ” he replied. “ I had forgotten the name entirely. 
Anthony,” he added in a low voice, “what shall you do?” 

Anthony Cuthbert looked at him for a moment in silence. 
“I cannot think,” he replied ; “not yet ! Jim, go out for your 
ride without me, like a good fellow. I want to be alone.” 

Jim Sinclair left him without another word. It was the best 
thing, he thought, which he could do. 


CHAPTER XIV 


J IM went to the stables where he mounted his horse and rode 
off, immersed in meditation. What, he wondered, would his 
uncle do, now that this new development in the conditions of 
the woman he had been attached to for so long had suddenly 
and unexpectedly manifested itself? Fate, or whatever power it 
might be that controlled the vicissitudes of life, was certainly a 
strange and capricious thing ! Instead of this prince del Monte, 
Sonia di San Vico’s worthless husband might have been among 
the victims of the disaster to the French express. Supposing this 
had been the case, would Sonia, he asked himself, have in due 
course of time summoned him back to her ? She had declared 
that even were her husband to die, and so leave her a free woman 
she would never marry him ; that when he found a wife, that wife 
must be younger and not older than he ; a girl who could begin 
her life with him, and not a woman whose life had already been 
robbed of all its freshness and simplicity by misfortune and un- 
happiness. But these objections were ridiculous. Sonia looked 
at the matter from altogether too quixotic and disinterested a 
point of view, a proof, Jim assured himself, that her love for him 
was in reality of a far worthier and deeper nature than she had 
chosen to pretend was the case. No, most decidedly had the 
fates elected to remove Sonia di San Vico’s husband, as they had 
removed prince del Monte, he, Jim, would have returned to her 
whether she summoned him or not. He would have broken 
down her scruples, and obliged her to acknowledge that when he 
had vowed he was ready to marry her should some accident set 
her free, he had not been either trying to deceive her in order to 
gain a more immediate object, or speaking under the influence of 
a mere temporary passion. 

Probably Jim Sinclair scarcely realised that it was so, but as 

*59 


i6o 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


a matter of fact he was possessed by a haunting fear lest he had 
taken undue advantage of Sonia’s sudden and overwhelming 
passion for him, and lest she might one day feel that he had done 
so. The thought that he should in any way have behaved, as he 
expressed it to himself, like a “ bounder,” was intolerable to him, 
and in his somewhat old-fashioned code of manners, a man who 
took from a woman all she had to give, and then refused to marry 
her afterwards if he had the chance, was nothing less than a 
“bounder.” The thought that by yielding to his passion and 
accepting Sonia’s conditions, he had put it out of his power to 
prove his readiness to fulfil his responsibilities in accordance 
with sentiments he considered obligatory to a gentleman was a 
perpetual irritation to him. It acted as a goad which wounded 
his sense of self-respect. Having no pretensions to be in any 
way different from the vast majority of other young men of his 
age in certain matters, Jim naturally did not concern himself 
with the moral aspect of his position. His self-reproach — for it 
was that rather than remorse — was entirely confined to regretting 
bitterly that he, too, had not had the presence of mind to make 
his conditions with Sonia before yielding to his passion and to 
hers. At least, he told himself, it would have been more chival- 
rous to have done so ; and he would have safeguarded his own 
self-respect better than he could ever now have the satisfaction of 
feeling that he had done. 

Jim’s horse took its rider very much where it chose that even- 
ing. Every now and then he looked at his watch, wondering 
when he should have allowed a reasonable time to elapse before 
returning to Cuthbertsheugh. He longed to hear from Anthony 
what steps he intended to take in view of the disaster which had 
overtaken prince del Monte. He remembered as though it had 
taken place yesterday the conversation which he and Anthony 
had had together on that autumn afternoon when they were riding 
back from cub-hunting. On that occasion he had made condi- 
tions. The moment had probably now arrived to show his uncle 
that he was ready to abide by them. At any rate Anthony should 
see that it was no lack of gratitude, no disinclination to take him 
into his confidence which had caused him to refrain from telling 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


161 


him all his troubles and asking for his advice. The present, he 
thought, would be an admirable opportunity for putting an end to 
any estrangement which had grown up between his uncle and 
himself — since Anthony would realise that he, Jim, was only too 
ready to efface himself and his own interests in order to leave 
him absolutely free to act as he might wish with regard to princess 
del Monte. 

“ It was scarcely seven o’clock when Jim rode into the stable- 
yard at Cuthbertsheugh, and dismounted from his horse. He 
went at once to Anthony’s study, and found him sitting at his 
writing-table busily engaged in writing letters. 

Jim offered to go away, but Anthony detained him. “ Do 
not go,” he said, “ I want to talk to you, Jim. My letters can 
wait, as in any case they cannot leave now until the morning. 
You asked me what I meant to do in this business. That is just 
what I want to talk to you about. Whatever I do, you have the 
right to be consulted, and I should like to hear what you 
think.” 

“You know already what I think,” said Jim quietly. 

Anthony Cuthbert looked at him. “ Facts and remote 
possibilities are very different things,” he observed a little drily. 
“ I am quite aware of what you allude to. But when we dis- 
cussed this contingency, it was simply a contingency, and one 
which was extremely unlikely to occur for many years. Del 
Monte was if anything a younger man than I am.” 

“ The fact that it has occurred does not alter the position so 
far as I am concerned,” returned Jim. “ If you remember, we 
made a bargain. I told you that if the day came when, from 
any cause, you found you could marry the lady you have always 
wished to marry, you were not to consider yourself bound by 
your intentions regarding myself. I tell you the same thing now, 
Anthony. Perhaps you thought that I said so then because the 
possibility of my being taken at my word seemed so improbable. 
If you did, you made a mistake. I should not have said it if I 
had not meant it.” 

Anthony Cuthbert rose from his chair and, walking to the 
window, looked out of it for a moment or two in silence. 

ii 


162 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


“ Do you realise all that your words imply ? ” he asked 
presently. “ I am still comparatively a young man, and princess 
del Monte is, as I told you, twenty years younger than I. If I 
married her — I say if — you could not reasonably expect to be my 
heir for very long.” 

“ Did I expect it before you told me that you intended to 
make me your heir ? ” asked Jim. “ The thing never entered into 
my head before I came to Cuthbertsheugh last year. I haven’t yet 
got accustomed to the idea, Anthony, so you see that you would 
not be inflicting any particular disappointment on me if you were 
to take a step which would eventually cut me out.” 

“ Cut you out ! ” repeated Anthony Cuthbert. “ Yes, that is 
what I cannot stand the idea of. You have become a good deal 
to me, Jim, and I hate the thought of any action of mine 
damaging your future prospects in life. When I told you that I 
meant you to succeed me here, I honestly believed that all 
question of my marrying was for ever at an end — but now ” 

“ But now it isn’t,” interrupted Jim laconically. 

“ I don’t know. Did I read you that letter — the postscript to 
it, I mean ? No ? Well, it appears that del Monte has swindled 
his wife — his widow — out of every sixpence she possessed in the 
world, and that she is left absolutely penniless. It may not be 
true, of course, or it may be only an exaggeration of the facts, 
though I can believe any villainy of that man. I fear, however, 
that it is true ; for my correspondent was told it at the Italian 
embassy in Paris, where, of course, they would know. He was 
actually bolting from Italy when he was killed ; apparently he had 
been mixed up in some fraud or other, and no doubt had used 
his wife’s money to float him as long as there was any of it left 
to lay his hands upon. However, all that I can easily find out. 
I want to go to Rome, Jim. There I should learn everything I 
want to know. You can understand, can’t you ? If it is really 
true that princess del Monte is ruined, perhaps in some way I 
could do something.” 

“ I should say that you could do a great deal ! ” said Jim 
with a flash of amusement in his eyes. “That is to say,” he 
added, “ if she is faithful to her old attachment to you.” 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


163 

Anthony Cuthbert shook his head. ‘‘That is not at all 
likely,” he replied. “ You must remember that it is some years 
since we have seen each other. At first I used to go to see 
her when I was in Rome, but I found that it was useless. 
Indeed, she begged me not to call upon her the last time I was 
there, and I have never returned to Rome since. It is nearly 
five years now since I have heard of her except very indirectly, 
and when I have done so it has always been to hear that she 
lived under her husband’s roof, but that was all, and that people 
wondered why she did not amuse herself like other women whose 
married lives are not a success. I haven’t grown younger in 
twelve years, Jim, and it must be nearly that since Donna Laura 
Conti, as she was then, forgot the difference in our ages and 
listened to my folly ! ” 

Jim was silent for a space. “ But supposing you found that 
she remembered,” he said presently, “what would you do then?” 

Anthony shrugged his shoulders. “ God knows ! ” he 
answered. “ It would — yes, it would be a temptation still, even 
at my age, and all the more so if I knew that by marrying 
her I could give her happiness after all she has had to suffer, 
and that I could save her from poverty. But it is absurd to 
think of that. I could help her indirectly, perhaps, though even 
this would be difficult, for how could she accept money from me, 
unless ” 

“ Unless she married you ! Evidently it would be impossible ; 
at least, I should suppose so ! But all those things will become 
clearer to you when you are on the spot,” said Jim. 

“ Jim ! ” Anthony Cuthbert exclaimed, “ do you mean to say 
that you would bear no grudge against me if I found that I could 
not help Donna Laura — I will not call her princess del Monte ! — 
in any other way than by marrying her ? — that you would leave 
me absolutely free, after all that I have led you to expect from 
me, to take a step which would probably — well, to use your own 
words, cut you out ? ” 

“ I mean just that ! ” answered Jim, smiling. “ I am glad 
you have saved me the trouble of saying it, Anthony ! I 
wanted to say it, but I should probably have expressed it less 


164 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


clearly. Do not let us go over old ground again, and repeat 
what we have already agreed upon months ago. I know 
perfectly well that if things had gone right with you, you would 
never have had to look about for an heir to succeed you at 
Cuthbertsheugh. I always had a sort of idea that very likely 
circumstances would change, and that after all you would be able 
to marry the woman you wanted. And a nice sort of position I 
should be in if I felt that you were throwing away a chance of 
making yourself happy for the rest of your life on account of 
some generous scruple about not disappointing me? I can 
assure you, Anthony, if you gave me the slightest suspicion that 
you were making such a mess of things as that, you wouldn’t 
see much of me at Cuthbertsheugh in the future ! By Jove, 
won’t Aunt Jane be delighted ! She never could stand the idea 
of anybody but a direct heir reigning at Cuthbertsheugh.” 

“What the deuce does it matter what Jane thinks?” ex- 
claimed Anthony impatiently; “and how do you know that she 
does think it ? ” 

Jim laughed. “ She has often bewailed the fact of your not 
having married again and had a son,” he replied, “ and upon my 
word I quite sympathised with her. Aunt Jane doesn’t like me 
— she never did. So it must have been all the more trying for 
her to see me installed here as the heir apparent — I, who am not 
even a Cuthbert ! I should like to drive over to Alnwick and 
tell her the news, Anthony ! ” 

Anthony Cuthbert laughed in spite of himself. “ Imagine,” 
he said, “Jane’s face if she heard that I was going to marry 
a foreigner and a papist ! Ot the two, I am quite sure she 
would prefer the previous arrangement. But you are jumping too 
fast at conclusions, my dear boy. Whatever Donna Laura’s ideas 
may have been years ago, she has probably long changed them 
by this time. Moreover, with such an unfortunate first experience 
of matrimony she is not likely to wish to repeat the experiment. 
All the same, I wished to be sure that you had not changed your 
ideas, and that the bargain we made nearly a year ago still held 
good. I didn’t really suppose for a moment that you only insisted 
on that bargain in order to please me, thinking you would be 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


165 

quite safe in doing so. I know you too well for that, Jim ! And 
now, as we are discussing the subject, I will tell you what I should 
do in the event of my finding that Donna Laura still retained 
enough affection for me to marry her, and that marriage was the 
simplest way of giving me a right to help her in her trouble. If 
this was the case, and we eventually had a son, that son, of 
course, would have to inherit Cuthbertsheugh. But Cuthberts- 
heugh is not my only property. Some of the Yorkshire estates 
which my father bought are not entailed. I can leave them as I 
choose, and I should leave them to you. You would not be as 
well off as if you had inherited the whole thing, but at any rate 
you would be considerably better off than you would be without 
them. I have often thought lately what I should do if circum- 
stances arose which obliged me to alter the arrangement made last 
year, and luckily I am able to make a good provision for you 
quite irrespective of Cuthbertsheugh. No, don’t say a word, I 
absolutely refuse to hear anything more about the matter. I 
shall most probably go to Rome as soon as I receive answers to 
certain letters I am writing. The question is, what you will do ? 
It will be dull at Cuthbertsheugh quite alone, but you could 
always ask a friend or two to stop with you, and I dare say that 
in a very short time I should be back here. I would much 
rather you stayed here, Jim, and, whatever happens, you must 
always make Cuthbertsheugh your home. I couldn’t do without 
you now.” 

“ I shall not be dull here,” Jim said. “You are too good to 
me — far to good ! And I am afraid that sometimes, especially 
lately, you may have thought I was not as grateful to you as I 
ought to be, or that I did not show the same confidence in you 
as you have always shown in me. It is very far from being 
that, but — ” and he hesitated. 

Anthony glanced at him with an affectionate smile. “ I 
should not have said a word to you on that subject, my dear 
Jim,” he observed, “all the more so because you have shown 
me in other ways that you amply deserve my confidence. But 
as you have mentioned it yourself — yes — I confess that lately I 
have thought you were worrying yourself about something 01 


1 66 


ANTHONY CUTHBER1 


other, and that you might just as well have taken me into your 
confidence. It rather annoyed me at first to feel that you didn’t 
trust me, or perhaps thought — like many young fellows of your 
age think — that an older man would not be able to look at 
things from your point of view or sympathise with you. After- 
wards, however, I came to the conclusion that whatever it was 
that was troubling you, it must be something of a nature which 
obliged you to keep it to yourself. There are plenty of bothers 
of that kind in life — and I know from bitter experience that no- 
thing is so maddening as when one’s relatives think that, because 
they are relatives, they have a right to exercise a curiosity which 
would be gross impertinence if shown by others.” 

“That is just it!” exclaimed Jim eagerly. “I have had 
something to worry me lately, and it is exactly one of those 
things which one cannot talk about even to one’s best friend, for 
fear of — well, of being dishonourable. I am glad you understand, 
Anthony, for not the least part of the worry has been the feeling 
that you must think I was not returning your confidence.” 

“ I understand perfectly,” Anthony Cuthbert replied, “ so 
don’t let that part of the business trouble you any more. As 
to the rest, I hope it will settle itself satisfactorily in course of 
time. ‘II tempo e galantuomo ’ — as the Italians say — you pro- 
bably have picked up some of the language during your travels. 
Only, don’t do anything foolish in the meanwhile, that’s all ! ” 

“ I haven’t got the chance ! ” returned Jim drily. 

Anthony gave him a quick look of intelligence. “ No ? ” he 
asked. “ Well, so much the better ! Very likely you are worry- 
ing yourself simply because you haven’t that chance. It is extra- 
ordinary how often we all do worry ourselves for no other 
reason ! ” 

“ I would much rather remain quietly here,” observed Jim. 
“ There are horses to ride, and lots of places in the neighbour- 
hood I want to see. I shall go to Alnwick, and call on Aunt 
Jane ; and I have never seen the castle.” 

“ Then you had better get Jane to take you to luncheon 
there — she knows the duke and duchess much better than I do. 
Otherwise, you will only be shown the outside of the castle. I 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


167 


can very easily write to the duke, and ask him to give you leave 
for a day or two’s fishing in the Alne. It is delightful up in the 
park there at this time of year, all round Hulne Abbey. Yes, 
you have plenty of places to see — Bamburgh, Dunstanburgh, 
Warkworth — and you should go over to Cragside, and see what 
science and labour combined have been able to make out of a 
tract of rough Northumbrian moorland. But we will not think 
of all that for another few days, Jim. It would be useless my 
starting off to Rome till I know a little more than I do now. I 
must act discreetly. I suppose very few people know that I ever 
wished to marry Donna Laura Conti, and of course I don’t want 
the Roman world to couple our names together. Fortunately 
Rome is a desert at this time of year, and the Roman world is 
scattered in every direction. My idea is to go quietly out there 
and try to see Donna Laura, and to hear from her how things 
really stand. One cannot believe more than half of what people 
say about their neighbours’ affairs, and generally it is better to 
believe nothing at all ! Even the Italian embassy at Paris may 
have got hold of some exaggerated account of the business. Del 
Monte was by no means popular with his compatriots, and they 
would be sure to make the worst of his conduct — though it was 
always quite bad enough without that.” 

“Anthony,” said Jim suddenly, “do you mind if I ask you 
a question, or will you think me impertinent ? ” 

“No, why should I ? Ask away, Jim ! ” 

“You have never got over your love for Donna Laura? you 
would still marry her if you could ? ” 

“ If you mean that I have never seen any other woman whom 
I have wished to marry, then, I suppose I never have got over 
my attachment to her,” replied Anthony Cuthbert. “ My first 
marriage, as you know, was not a success. The illness of which 
my wife died was a long one, and, to put it plainly, I was a 
nurse, and not a husband for all but a few months of my married 
life. Moreover, I realised afterwards — when I had met Donna 
Laura — that I had married in order to please my father, rather 
than to please myself. He was as anxious as my sister Jane 
that the tradition of Cuthbertsheugh should not be broken. 


1 68 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


That damned tradition ! ” added Anthony impatiently, “ it was 
my undoing when I was your age, Jim ! And the whole thing 
is very probably nonsense ! In five hundred years it is hardly 
likely that no Cuthbert’s wife succeeded in persuading her husband 
that a ‘by-blow’ was his own legitimate son. I don’t suppose 
that the women of the Middle Ages were either more or less 
virtuous than those of our own times. But my father clung 
to the tradition, and left me no peace until I had found a wife. 
Of course, there was a time when I persuaded myself that I was 
in love with her, and when her illness came I was deeply sorry 
for her and did all I could to make her life happy until the end. 
It was not till I met Donna Laura that I realised how little love 
had entered into my life before then. Of late years, I have tried 
to think as little as possible of what might have been ; and 
latterly, since, you came into my life, it has been much easier not 
to think of it. Feeling that you would come after me here, 
I have taken more interest in the place. I had long ceased 
to contemplate the possibility of any son of my own succeeding 
to me as owner of Cuthbertsheugh.” 

“ But surely, since you have received this news, you must 
recognise that the possibility still exists,” said Jim Sinclair. 

“I do recognise it. This letter” — and Anthony Cuthbert 
pointed to the missive which lay on his writing-table — “has 
revived all those feelings which I thought I had — I will not 
say overcome, but put away from me as entirely useless to 
entertain.” 

“ I understand,” returned Jim. “ Indeed,” he added, “ I 
always suspected as much. If she, Donna Laura, is of the same 
mind, there can be no question as to what the result of your 
journey to Rome will eventually be ! ” 

Anthony smiled. “ And yet,” he said, “ you do not attempt 
to dissuade me from taking it ! ” 

“ On the contrary ! I advise you to go to Rome. I should 
do exactly the same if I were you,” answered Jim. “ And,” he 
continued, “whatever you may find is for your happiness to 
do when you get there, you will do it, will you not, Anthony? 
You will not allow yourself to be hindered by any scruples about 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 169 

me, for that would be altogether unnecessary, as you ought 
to have understood by now ! ” 

Anthony laid his hand on his nephew’s shoulder. “ I have 
understood,” he said simply. “You and I have always under- 
stood each other, have we not, Jim?” 


{ 


CHAPTER XV 


HE answers to the letters which Anthony Cuthbert had 



J. written to old acquaintances both in Rome and Florence 
more than confirmed the statements of his friend in Paris con- 
cerning the financial position in which prince del Monte had left 
his wife. It appeared that private gambling and speculations of 
the wildest nature had long ago caused every penny of the fortune 
the princess had brought him on her marriage to disappear — if, 
indeed, this fortune had any existence except upon paper. 
Anthony’s correspondents informed him that the gossip current 
in both cities was to the effect that prince del Monte had laid 
hands upon Donna Laura Conti’s supposed fortune before he 
ever married her ; and that it was largely owing to this fact that 
Donna Laura’s mother, who had for so long been his mistress, 
and who had connived at the fraud, had arranged the marriage. 
It appeared that for a certain period after the princess del 
Monte had finally refused to live with her husband, a sum of 
money had been annually paid to her lawyers for her benefit by 
the prince’s men of business ; but that this sum had been almost 
entirely raised by perpetually placing mortgages on lands which 
had devolved upon her at her father’s death, and over which 
prince del Monte, as her husband, in the eyes of the law, had 
full control if he chose to exercise it. The immediate cause 
of his flight from Italy, however, was his complete inability to 
meet his financial liabilities on the Bourse, not to speak of 
innumerable private debts to his tradesmen and others who 
had for years allowed him credit on the strength of his name 
and of his wife’s supposed fortune. The majority of Anthony’s 
correspondents wrote to him under the evident impression that 
he was fully acquainted with all the details concerning the last 
few years and of the del Monte menage , and limited themselves 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


171 


to deploring the state ot absolute penury in which prince del 
Monte had left his wife. In only one of the letters was there 
a passing allusion to an incident which puzzled Anthony 
considerably. 

“ Del Monte,” one of his correspondents wrote, “ never 
forgave his wife for not only refusing any longer to remain 
in his house, but also for having contemptuously declined any 
longer to be known by his name. As you of course know, 
for the last three or four years she has lived entirely out of 
the world at some place of her own in Tuscany, and calls 
herself by one of her own family titles. Del Monte has often 
been heard to threaten that he would eventually * starve her 
out/ and force her to come back to him ; and it seems that 
he was in process of carrying out this charming marital plan 
when his financial disaster overtook him, and he had to bolt.” 
Anthony Cuthbert knew nothing of the sort. On the occasion 
of his last visit to Rome, princess del Monte was still living 
in her husband’s house, and bearing his name. Nothing, there- 
fore, had led him to suppose that she had subsequently severed 
even her official relations to the extent of leaving his roof and 
renouncing his name. The news both astonished and distressed 
him, for he knew that she would not have taken so grave a step 
without serious reasons. That his correspondent did not think 
it worth while to mention the name she had taken added not 
a little to Anthony’s perplexity. He tried unavailingly to recall 
to his memory what the various secondary titles belonging to 
Donna Laura’s father had been. The Almanack de Gotha could 
not help him here, since the ducal family of Carmagnano did not 
come within its category, and he did not happen to possess an 
Italian peerage. 

These replies to his letters to Italy had reached Cuthberts- 
heugh by the afternoon post, and that very evening Anthony 
had put himself into a local train which, after changing at 
Alnwick and again at Alnmouth, would land him at Newcastle 
in time to catch the night Scotch express to King’s Cross. To 
Jim he had said little concerning the contents of his letters, 
beyond telling him that they more than confirmed his fears that 


t 72 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


prince del Monte had crowned his offences against his wife 
by robbing her of all her property, and leaving her penniless. 
He did not care to discuss the other details which had been 
sent him, even with his nephew ; neither, indeed, in the 
hurry consequent upon his abrupt departure, had there been 
time to enter into more particulars, even had he wished to do 
so. The following morning he had crossed the Channel, and 
that night he was speeding through France to Turin, along the 
very line on which prince del Monte had met his death scarcely 
a fortnight before. The evening of the next day he was at 
Rome, and found himself nearly the sole occupant of the hotel 
at which he descended. With the Parliament closed, the Court 
away in the north, and the majority of the Corps Diplomatique 
seeking cooler air at Camaldoli and Vallombrosa, Rome was 
deserted. 

After dinner Anthony wandered out into the streets, and the 
gentle splashing of the fountains in the hot summer night 
brought back to his mind a host of memories of the past. It 
was too late to walk down to the old palace off the Corso 
where prince del Monte had rented an apartment for many 
years and had actually managed to pay for it, presumably at the 
expense of creditors more accommodating than its owner would 
have been had the rent not been forthcoming at the proper 
seasons. 

The next morning, however, he hailed a “ botte ” and had 
himself driven to the palace in question. No porter was visible 
at the entrance. A grey cat, licking its lips in the sunlight, 
with the remnants of a half-eaten mouse lying on the pavement 
before it, was the only occupant of the courtyard. The porter’s 
office was empty ; and Anthony, knowing the ways of Roman 
porters in general, felt tolerably sure that the porter himself was 
at that moment gossiping over a litre of red wine in the nearest 
osteria. He was not sorry for his absence, since it was unnecessary 
that most of the immediate neighbourhood should know that an 
Englishman had come to inquire for the principessa del Monte. 
He mounted the broad stone staircase leading to the first floor 
of the palace. Repeated ringing at the door of the apartment 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


i73 


produced no result. Presently, however, an old gentleman 
came slowly down the stairs from the floor above and gazed at 
him inquiringly. He might have been anything from a senator 
to a successful dentist, and Anthony raised his hat to him as he 
was about to pass. Would he, Anthony asked him, be so kind 
as to tell him whether the principessa del Monte was at that 
moment in Rome? He apologised for troubling the signore, 
but the porter was not to be found, and he had rung the bell 
without any one coming to answer it. 

The elderly gentleman looked considerably disconcerted, 
even alarmed. “ The principessa del Monte,” he replied hastily, 
“had not been in the house for years. As to the prince, many 
people would like to know where he was — he himself among the 
number. Although he had not much doubt on the subject, it 
would be a relief to know positively, for many reasons. The 
signore, evidently, was a stranger, and did not know that the 
principe del Monte had been killed in a railway accident ! ” 

Anthony could not help smiling at the Roman sarcasm. 
“ One of the victims, without doubt ! ” he said to himself. 

The other still continued to look at him curiously. There 
is not much to talk about in Rome in July. It might be just 
as well to try to find out what this foreigner wanted with the 
del Monte. It would afford a topic of conversation for the 
remainder of the day. 

“Perhaps,” he hazarded, “the signore had business with the 
prince ? but, as he had explained, it would be difficult to find 
him. Indeed, he hoped it would be impossible, since — ” and 
a shrug of his shoulders completed the sentence. 

“ Certainly not ! ” returned Anthony decidedly. “ I merely 
wished to find out whether the princess is in Rome. My busi- 
ness is with her.” 

“Ah, the princess — poveretta! In Rome? but surely the 
signore must know that the princess had lived apart from her 
husband for, oh, some four or five years. She never came to 
Rome, but lived at a place of her own, near Florence. More 
than that — she did not call herself principessa del Monte any 
longer. Did the signore know the principe del Monte ? ” 


i74 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


“ No — scarcely at all.” 

“ Ah, then I may offer my felicitations. A pessimo soggetto ! 
Sicuro ! his wife left him, and called herself by another name.” 

“ What name ? ” asked Anthony Cuthbert quickly. 

The old gentleman scratched his head. “Perbacco!” he 
exclaimed, “but I have forgotten. Marchesa — marchesa — dia- 
volo ! ” 

“ The marchesa Diavolo ? ” asked Anthony gravely. He had 
every reason for wishing to keep his garrulous friend in a good 
humour. 

“ Oh, bello ! no, not that ! ” returned the other, chuckling. 
Stay,” he added, “ my wife will remember the name. All Rome 
talked about it, when it was known that the princess del Monte 
had left this house and would not even be known by her husband’s 
name. Yes, certainly my wife will remember. Trust the women 
not to forget a scandal ! If the signore will come upstairs with 
me we will ask her. Allow me — ” And he drew out a 
pocket-book and presented Anthony with a card on which was 
written the name Carlo Vezzi, and underneath it the words 
Cavaliere della Corona dTtalia. 

Anthony bowed, and extracting one of his own cards, gave it 
to his new acquaintance, who scanned it attentively. 

“ The signore is English ? ” he observed. “ I should not have 
thought it. It is rare to hear an Englishman speak our language 
so well. Please — ” And he motioned to Anthony to precede 
him up the staircase. 

“ But I am putting you to too much inconvenience,” Anthony 
said politely. 

“ S’immagini ! ” 

They arrived at the second floor, and the cavaliere Vezzi 
proceeded to drag an enormous key from some mysterious part 
of his person, with which he opened the door of his apartment 
and duly ushered Anthony into a sitting-room. 

“ Maria ! ” he called out loudly. “ Maria ! ” 

A large and elderly lady appeared in response to his summons. 
The signora Vezzi evidently felt the heat, for the upper part of 
her toilette was of the scantiest description, displaying with 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


175 

startling generosity the proportions of a singularly well-developed 
bust. 

“Maria, cara,” said the cavaliere, “this gentleman” — and he 
studied Anthony’s card again — “ Mr. — uhm — was ringing at the 
first floor. He wished to see the principessa del Monte. But I 
have explained to him that it is years since she lived here, and 
that she no longer calls herself principessa del Monte, but 
marchesa — what ? Like an imbecile, I have forgotten the 
name.” 

“The marchesa di San Vico,” replied the lady promptly. 
“Sicuro, it is more than five years since she left her miserable 
husband, and quite right too ! Ah, che bella signora, che bella 
signora ! Good, too. Do you remember, Carlo, how she helped 
us to nurse our girl when she had that typhoid fever. And now 
that pezzo d’animale has ruined her, and they say she will have 
to sell all she has to pay the mortgages he placed on her 
property ! ” 

“ And where is the marchesa di San Vico now ? ” asked 
Anthony eagerly. 

“ Ma ! at San Vico. It is close to Florence.” 

“She is not the only one ! ” exclaimed the cavaliere, eager to 
air his own grievance against the defunct del Monte. “ Imagine, 
signore, I put my name to a bill of his for fifteen thousand francs 
— fifteen — thousand — francs ! and that money I shall have to 
pay. Canaglia — and again, Canaglia ! ” and he shook his fist in 
the air. 

“ Canaglia he, and idiot you ! ” interposed the signora Vezzi 
acidly. “ Did I not warn you how it would be?” 

“Maria, cara — you did. But how was one to know? A 
piince — and in favour with ‘ quei signori’ across the Tiber!” and 
he jerked his fingers in the direction of the Vatican. “ Of course 
I thought that the thing was perfectly safe ! ” 

“ If you had listened to me,” began his wife in louder tones. 

Anthony, who had no wish to be present at the renewal of an 
argument which was probably of almost hourly occurrence in casa 
Vezzi, hastily apologised for having troubled them, and was about 
to take his leave when the cavaliere stopped him. 


176 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


“ If the signore wants further information concerning the 
princess del Monte,” he said courteously, “ I may perhaps be of 
some service to him. My friend the avvocato Sangiorgi is the 
princess’s man of business. He has his studio here in Rome, in 
the Via del Tritone. I shall be very happy to give the signore an 
introduction to him.” 

“ Carlo ! ” exclaimed the signora Vezzi. “ Let me speak. 
We do not know what the signore’s business may be with the 
princess. If it is to bring further trouble — more dispiciceri — 
upon her, poor angel, he must go elsewhere for his information ! 
You will never stop to think, Carlo? It is incredible what imbe- 
ciles men are. If you had stopped to think, you would never 
have put your name ” 

“ I assure you, signora,” interrupted Anthony hastily, “ that I 
am the very last person in the world to add to the princess del 
Monte’s troubles. I have known her for many years, and I 
knew her father and mother. I have come all the way from 
England.” 

“ In this heat ! ” interposed the signora Vezzi, mopping 
herself. 

“ In this heat,” proceeded Anthony, “in order to see whether 
I could not be of some use to her. I cannot thank you and the 
signor cavaliere sufficiently for the information you have given 
me — and I will call on signor ” 

“Sangiorgi,” supplemented the cavaliere. “Via Tritone, 
numero 300.” 

“ Sangiorgi, at once. I think I can promise you that he will 
tell you that my business can in no way add to the princess del 
Monte’s misfortunes ! ” 

He bowed himself out precipitately, fearful least the threatened 
argument as to the bill might burst forth again, and the signora 
Vezzi should appeal to him for support in it. He had but to 
traverse Piazza Colonna to find himself in the Via del Tritone, 
and, as it was still early, he might very likely find the avvocato 
Sangiorgi in his office. 

Anthony hurried down the staircase of the palace and crossed 
the courtyard. The porter was still invisible — and so were the 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


177 


last remains of the mouse. But the cat was lying distended in 
the sun, sleeping the sleep of good digestion. The lawyer was at 
home, and Anthony sent in his card to the studio, together with 
that of the cavaliere Vezzi. He was at once favourably impressed 
by the avvocato Sangiorgi’s manner and personality. The lawyer 
was apparently of about the same age as himself, and looked 
like a gentleman. He received Anthony courteously, but was 
evidently surprised by a visit from an Englishman. 

“You come from my friend the cavaliere Vezzi?” he asked, 
placing a chair for Anthony. “ I shall be delighted to be of 
service to any friend of the cavaliere’s.” 

“ I can hardly call myself a friend of the cavaliere Vezzi,” 
replied Anthony, smiling. “I saw him for the first time in my 
life a quarter of an hour ago.” 

The lawyer made no comment, but sat looking at his visitor 
inquiringly. “ I think, signore,” continued Anthony, “ that you 
act as the princess del Monte’s — who now calls herself marchesa 
di San Vico — legal adviser, do you not ? ” 

The avvocato Sangiorgi’s eyes suddenly contracted and he 
became all attention. 

“ I do,” he said briefly. 

“I am an old friend of that lady,” continued Anthony, 
“though I have not seen her for some years. I knew her 
parents also.” 

“Perhaps you were a friend of the principe del Monte?” 
asked the lawyer abruptly. 

“ By no means,” answered Anthony quietly. “ Had I been 
so, I should not have asked you to receive me. I think it would 
hardly be possible to be a friend of the late prince del Monte, 
and also of the Marchesa di San Vico.” 

The avvocato’s manner changed instantly. “ Forgive me, 
signore,” he said, “ but in my position as adviser to the 
marchesa, I have unluckily found it necessary to put that 
question to any one wishing to discuss her affairs with me. 
If you will tell me what it is you wish to know concerning this 
lady whom I have the honour and pleasure to represent, I will 
answer you to the best of my ability — always provided that you 
12 


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ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


come to me as her friend, and that by answering you I should 
not in any way be acting against her interests.” 

“ When I tell you that I have come from England expressly 
to learn if I can be of any help to her at the present moment, 
I feel sure that you will not place any unnecessary difficulties 
in my way,” Anthony returned. “ I knew Donna Laura Conti 
before she married,” he added quietly. 

The lawyer looked at him keenly. “ And I think you said 
just now that you also knew her mother, the duchessa di 
Carmagnano ? ” he asked. 

“ I did. But after Donna Laura’s marriage I ceased to have 
any communication with the duchessa di Carmagnano.” 

“And why, signore, if you were friends before that event?” 

Anthony looked him straight in the face. “ I think you 
know why,” he said drily. “ Many people did not care to 
continue their friendship with the duchessa after that event. 
I had other reasons, also, for discontinuing my acquaintance with 
her — private reasons, signore, which we need not discuss — at all 
events at present.” 

The avvocato Sangiorgi struck the table behind which he was 
sitting with his fist. “ It was an abominable marriage ! ” he 
exclaimed. “ I see, signore, that you are acquainted with the 
details of it.” 

“Entirely. Nobody, probably, is better acquainted with 
them — not excluding yourself ! ” replied Anthony Cuthbert. 

The lawyer raised his eyebrows, but he made no remark. 

“I heard of prince del Monte’s death quite by chance, in 
England,” resumed Anthony. “ I had missed seeing the account 
of the railway accident in our newspapers, and a friend of mine 
casually mentioned it in a letter written from Paris, and told me 
that del Monte was among those killed. He also wrote that he 
had been informed at your Paris embassy that del Monte had 
run through all his wife’s fortune, and that she would be left 
penniless. I have come to ask you, signore, if the story is true ? 
I can assure you on my honour, that you may safely confide in 
me as to the state of the marchesa di San Vico’s financial affairs. 
What you say will go no further.” 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


179 

The lawyer tapped the table with a paper-knife. He looked 
searchingly at Anthony, who returned his gaze unflinchingly. 

“ Caro signore,” he said, after a pause, “ you must admit that 
it is somewhat unusual for a stranger to call upon a man in my 
position and ask for information concerning the financial con- 
ditions of one of my clients. What guarantee have I that you 
will not use to my client’s detriment any information I thought 
fit to give you ? It would be useless to attempt to conceal from 
you that the marchesa di San Vico’s affairs are in a deplorable 
state, owing to the gross frauds committed upon her by her 
husband and others. That is a fact which the whole world knows. 
I am afraid that, before I answer your questions, I must ask 
you a question myself. By what right do you ask me for any in- 
formation regarding this lady’s private affairs ? ” 

Anthony hesitated for a moment. The lawyer’s demand was 
both logical and just. It was one, moreover, which must sooner 
or later be answered, if he was to leave Rome any wiser than he 
came to it. The two men looked at one another keenly and 
critically, and something in the avvocato Sangiorgi’s face con- 
vinced Anthony that he was dealing with an honest man, and 
one who was fighting in his client’s interests. 

“ You will allow me to make one stipulation before I answer 
a question which, I admit willingly, you have a perfect right to 
put,” said Anthony. 

The lawyer bowed. “ Certainly,” he replied. 

“ I must ask you to regard my answer as confidential, as a 
confidence given by one gentleman to another.” 

“ Signore,” returned the other quietly, “ until you give me 
reason to decline to be of any service to you, I regard you as a 
client. Naturally, therefore, any communication you may think 
fit to make to me is confidential, so far as I am concerned.” 

“ Under those circumstances,” Anthony replied, “ I have no 
hesitation in giving you an answer which, I imagine, will prove 
that I am genuinely interested in the marchesa di San Vico’s 
position, although you may still consider that I have no right to 
be so. Years ago, signore, I was an intimate friend of the duca 
and duchessa di Carmagnano, I became attached to Donna 


i8o 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


Laura Conti, and though I was many years older than she, I had 
reason to believe that she returned my attachment. I asked the 
duke’s consent to my suit, and he in the first instance readily 
accorded it. I must tell you that though I have no title, I am 
the head of one of the oldest families in England, and a rich man. 
I do not tell you these details about myself in order to seek to 
impress you with my own importance, but merely to show you 
that there was no reason, except, possibly, disparity in years, why 
I should not have married Donna Laura. The duchessa, for 
objects of her own into which I need not enter, as I imagine you 
to be only too well aware of them, stopped matters from going 
any further ; and a few weeks afterwards Donna Laura became 
the wife of prince del Monte. He was, as you may judge, very 
little my junior in years; and, except for the fact that no priest 
ever created me a prince, in other respects I had the advantage 
over him in blood, possessions, and, I hope, in character. This, 
signor avvocato, is the only guarantee I can give you as to my 
good faith in questioning you concerning the marchesa di San 
Vico’s affairs. Whether you regard it as a sufficient guarantee is 
for you to decide. In any case, I feel sure that I may rely on 
you to look upon it as confidential.” 

As Anthony spoke, the expression of the avvocato Sangiorgi’s 
face gradually changed from one of attentive interest to unre- 
strained astonishment. 

“ I could hardly have expected a better guarantee,” he said, 
with a slight smile, “ and certainly not one of a more surprising 
nature. Whether what you have told me in confidence gives 
you any practical right to obtaining information from me as to the 
state of the marchesa di San Vico’s affairs is a very open question. 
But you have trusted me, signore — and I will do the same by 
you — also, of course, in confidence. I may tell you candidly 
that this lady’s position is — deplorable. There is no other word 
for it. I see no prospect, moreover, of its becoming less so in the 
future — at least,” he added, correcting himself, “ I did not do so 
until a few minutes ago ! The marchesa, poor lady, has never been 
a woman of business. It appears that not long after her father’s 
death she signed certain documents which her husband brought 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


181 


her, without examining their contents. These documents were 
mortgages, raising large sums of money on the Tuscan estates 
she had inherited in her own right. More than this, the deeds 
were post-dated, and consequently prince del Monte was able to 
put them into operation whenever it suited his purpose. Why 
the marchesa signed them without even inquiring as to their 
purport it is difficult to understand — especially as, at the time, 
she had become fully aware of all the unspeakable villainy which 
had been practised upon her by obliging her to marry del Monte. 
We both know the relations which had for years existed between 
del Monte and the duchessa di Carmagnano ; but I doubt if 
even you, signore, know the influence which del Monte was able 
to bring to bear on the duchessa in order to oblige her to 
persuade her husband to sanction Donna Laura’s marriage.” 

“ I remember that there were rumours — ugly stories of some 
hold he had over the duchessa,” said Anthony, “ but they were 
vague, I think, and no doubt soon forgotten. There was some 
story about a will, forged or destroyed, I really forget which. 
You can imagine, after learning that my proposals for Donna 
Laura had been rejected, and that she was affianced to del Monte, 
I did not visit the family again. Indeed, I left Italy, and the 
next time I saw Donna Laura was two years afterwards — here in 
Rome — when I visited her as princess del Monte.” 

“ There is very little doubt,” replied the lawyer, “ that a will 
was tampered with, at del Monte’s instigation. The duchessa’s 
mother was Russian, and brought a considerable fortune in 
money — not in lands — to her husband. There were two 
daughters, of whom the duchessa di Carmagnano was the elder, 
and no son. Before the old lady died, which event happened at 
her son-in-law’s house in Florence, she had announced her in- 
tention of leaving her money equally distributed between the 
duchessa and the younger daughter, who was unmarried, de- 
ducting, of course, the dot already settled on the duchessa di 
Carmagnano at the time of her marriage. In the will, which was 
not found until some time after her death, it appeared that 
practically the whole of the old lady’s money had been left to 
the duchessa, no deduction having been made of dot already 


182 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


paid over. There was a talk of litigation, and of the whole 
matter being brought before the courts, when, strangely enough, 
the duchessa’s sister died, also in Florence, and intestate. Con- 
sequently, the duchessa inherited the whole fortune without 
further question.” 

“ The sister died ? ” said Anthony. 

“ Sicuro ! very conveniently,” and the avvocato Sangiorgi 
shrugged his shoulders. 

“ An ugly story ! But I have never quite understood why 
del Monte should have wished to marry Donna Laura. The 
duchessa di Carmagnano, when I remember her, was still a 
remarkably good-looking woman, and del Monte was generally 
supposed to have all he wanted in that quarter ! The duke was, 
well, an accommodating husband. Why should del Monte have 
insisted on marrying the girl ? ” 

“ More intrigues ! ” replied the avvocato Sangiorgi. “ Donna 
Laura’s fortune had been heavily dipped into. The duke, as you 
know, was vieux coureur and no doubt paid for his amuse- 
ments heavily. But the bulk of the money, I have very good 
reasons for suspecting, was extorted from the duchess by del 
Monte, always under the threat of revealing the mystery concern- 
ing the will. Another suitor might, and probably would, have 
made inquiries as to why Donna Laura had little or no fortune? 
and this would have been inconvenient both to the duchessa and 
to her lover. The whole affair is black — wrapped in mystery. I 
am convinced that there was yet some other reason which made 
del Monte insist on the marriage, and which forced the duchessa 
to agree to it ; but I have never been able to discover it, though 
I can guess at it. The marchesa di San Vico knows it — of that 
I am certain ; but as it is necessarily a private matter in no way 
entering into my sphere as her legal adviser, I have of course 
never ventured to allude to it.” 

“ No,” observed Anthony Cuthbert, “ as you say, it is a 
matter outside the present business. Del Monte, it seems, could 
not get hold of the land which, on the duke of Carmagnano’s 
death, had to pass to his daughter.” 

“ No — he could not do that; but, as I have told you, he did 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


183 

get hold of it in a sense. It will be impossible for the marchesa 
to pay off the mortgages he placed without her knowledge on her 
property in Tuscany. The lands will have to be sold, and even 
then there will not be a franc left for the marchesa to live upon.” 

“ How in the world could she sign those deeds, when she 
knew what a scoundrel she had married ! ” exclaimed Anthony. 

“ Ah, you may well ask ! It was a folly, an incredible folly ! 
But I will tell you why she did so. She had no sooner discovered 
that she had married a man who had for years been her mother’s 
lover than she treated him with the most contemptuous indiffer- 
ence. I, signore, have been present when the marchesa del 
Vico — or princess del Monte, as she still consented then to call 
herself — had to transact some business for which her husband’s 
signature was necessary. She treated him as I would not treat 
a dog, and indeed he was like a whipped dog in her presence. 
On more than one occasion, before the marchesa finally left her 
husband, I ventured to suggest that she should at all events 
pretend to assume a more conciliatory attitude. To be just, even 
to prince del Monte, it was evident that many a better man than 
he would have been driven to exasperation by her scathing con- 
tempt. But she would never listen to me, and naturally it was 
not my business to interfere between husband and wife. What 
was in her mind I do not know, but she took a line of her own, 
and there was no turning her from it. I can quite believe that 
rather than condescend to discuss any matters of business with 
her husband, she affixed her signature to papers he brought her 
with the same contemptuous indifference to their contents as that 
which she chose to assume towards his existence. It is, I think, 
some years since you have seen the marchesa di San Vico,” 
added the lawyer. 

“ Yes ; she must have altered very much in character, if she 
is as you describe her,” answered Anthony. “ When she was a 
girl, she was gentle and, indeed, of a singularly yielding disposi- 
tion. If she had not been so — ” and he paused abruptly. 

“ She has had enough to harden the gentlest character,” said 
the lawyer; “and I think,” he added, “that you will find a con- 
siderable difference in her now. In outward things she is still a 


iS 4 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


young and singularly beautiful woman — so much so, indeed, that 
one wonders how she has been able to live through all these 
years without yielding to the temptations she must have had to 
console herself for her husband’s conduct. But that, I imagine, 
has been part of her programme, if we may call it so. She has 
been too proud to give her husband the slightest case against her, 
realising that by not doing so she kept the whip hand over him. 
And you will observe, she succeeded. Prince del Monte never dared 
oppose her decision to leave him. He never dared even to make 
a move when she dealt him the most insulting blow of all, and 
refused any longer to bear his name — and this without troubling 
herself to give any reasons to the world for her refusal ! That, 
signore, was a step which no woman could have taken had she 
not been certain of her own position and her own power. It was 
taken on her own initiative, as you may imagine.” 

Anthony Cuthbert was silent. From what he had just heard, 
it was evident that the marchesa di San Vico was a very different 
person from the girl he had hoped to make his wife — different, 
even, from the princess del Monte as he had known her when he 
was last in Rome. A great longing to judge for himself of the 
extent of this difference rose in his heart. The lawyer had pro- 
bably been right when he said that she had been through enough 
to harden any woman’s character. He pictured her in his mind 
alone, in an equivocal position, with penury staring her in the 
face; disillusionised with life, revolted by the sordid treachery 
which had forced upon her an intolerable alliance with a worth- 
less and contemptible scoundrel. 

“ I understand,” he said presently, “ that the marchesa is at 
this moment at Florence — or rather at San Vico, which is near 
Florence, is it not ? ” 

The avvocato Sangiorgi turned over the leaves of some papers 
lying on the table beside him with an admirable assumption of 
carelessness. “ Ah,” he replied, “no doubt you would wish to 
see her. It is natural, having come so far.” 

“ I certainly wish to see her, if you think she would receive 
me,” answered Anthony, relieved that the lawyer had removed his 
scrutinising gaze from his face. “ I could go to Florence at any 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


185 

time,” he added, “ but I think that, under the circumstances, and 
considering that it is some years since I last saw the marchesa di 
San Vico, it would be better that you should inform her of my 
visit to you, and tell her that I had begged you to ask her if she 
would care to see me again. Perhaps you would be so kind as 
to write to her to-day ? ” 

The lawyer smiled. “ It will not be necessary to do that,” 
he replied. “The marchesa is in Rome. She has been here 
ever since the news came of prince del Monte’s death, and I see 
her almost daily.” 

“ In Rome ! ” exclaimed Anthony. “ But not ” 

“ Not in the house from which you have just come, certainly. 
She is living at a small hotel in the Ludovisi quarter. I have to 
see her this afternoon, and, if you wish, I will give her your 
message. It is not to be imagined that she will decline to receive 
you. The marchesa di San Vico is one of those women who do 
not trouble themselves to observe the conventionalities. Such 
women are rare with us in Italy ; but I understand that in your 
country there is greater liberty. You will not, for example, find 
her dressed in mourning, niente ciffatto ? You will probably not 
believe it when I tell you that not once has she alluded to her 
husband’s death during my interviews with her. Even when she 
arrived in Rome after having received the news, and I went to 
see her by appointment, I felt that I could not venture to say a 
word of condolence to her. She mentioned him in the course of 
our conversation in the same tones of cold, indifferent contempt 
she had always assumed when obliged to refer to him. Yet, 
signore, she is not a hard woman ; and she has been very gener- 
ous — but not to her husband. I have known of great kindnesses 
she has done, and those about her have always been devoted to 
her. In my opinion it is a pose — this coldness of hers which 
almost amounts to brutality — a fence behind which she has 
sheltered herself in order to humiliate her husband and show the 
world that he dared not oppose her. Well, the time has come 
when she can either break down that fence or allow it to be 
broken ! ” 

The boom of the time-gun which was then fired from the 


1 86 ANTHONY CUTHBERT 

bastions of San Angelo, followed by the ringing of bells of the 
various churches round, announced that it was midday; and 
Anthony Cuthbert, knowing that the lawyer would be leaving 
his office to go to breakfast, rose and took his leave. He gave 
the avvocato Sangiorgi the name of the hotel at which he was 
staying, and begged him to communicate with him so soon as 
he had seen the marchesa di San Vico. Then he turned once 
more into the Corso, and thence, seeking the shade of the narrow 
vicoli, made his way through the Piazza di Spagna, up the sun- 
baked steps of the Trinita de’ Monti to the comparatively cool 
alleys of the Pincio which, as he had expected, he found almost 
entirely deserted. Sitting down on a bench under the trees in 
the centre of the Hill of Gardens, he had ample leisure to reflect 
on the result of his morning’s inquiries. The avvocato Sangiorgi, 
he said to himself, was evidently an honest man, and, moreover, 
he was undoubtedly a gentleman. This was fortunate ; since the 
combination was by no means always to be met with among 
members of the legal profession in Italy. Would Laura receive 
him, he wondered ? At any rate, from what the lawyer had just 
told him, she would not make her widowhood an excuse for not 
doing so. If she declined to see him, he must consult Sangiorgi 
as to some means whereby, without offence to her or causing any 
gossip, the sale of her Tuscan property might be obviated and 
the mortgages paid off. The lawyer could certainly devise a plan 
whereby she should be left under the impression that he had 
discovered an unexpected method of settling all claims against 
her estate, and would not betray the source from which the 
money had proceeded. For more than an hour Anthony sat 
immersed in his meditations. A guardia sauntered past him 
every now and then, eyeing him doubtfully. It was the favourite 
hour for suicides to throw themselves over the lofty “ muraglione ” 
on to the stony lane dividing the Pincio from the grounds of the 
Villa Borghese. Anthony, with an inward smile, divined the 
man’s suspicions. The leap from the muraglione did not appeal 
to him, but the idea of luncheon did. Quitting the gardens, he 
sauntered slowly towards the church of the Trinitk, lingering as 
he went to gaze at the panorama of the city spread out beneath 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


187 


him, and renewing in his mind all his old associations with it. 
A solitary “ botte ” was drawn up in the shade of the houses at 
the corner of Via Sistina, horse and driver alike taking their 
midday sleep. Rousing the driver, who proceeded drowsily to 
remove the already empty nose-bag from his horse’s head, 
Anthony had himself driven back to his hotel, where he spent 
the remainder of the afternoon waiting for the avvocato Sangiorgi’s 
promised communication. 


CHAPTER XVI 


“ T LLUSTRIOUS SIR I duly informed the Marchesa di San 
A Vico of your presence in Rome. She begs me to tell you 
that she will be very happy if you will call upon her ; and that 
you would find her at her hotel to-morrow morning at any hour 
from nine o’clock until midday. I beg you to accept my most 
distinguished salutations, Vincenzo Sangiorgi.” 

This, being interpreted, was the tenor of the note which was 
brought to Anthony’s room that evening as he was about to go 
down to the restaurant of his hotel for dinner. As the afternoon 
hours passed, and no communication from the lawyer reached 
him, Anthony had become restless. Perhaps, he said to himself, 
he had done foolishly in entrusting Sangiorgi with a message. 
Laura’s suspicions might be aroused by learning from her man of 
business that he, Anthony, had called upon him ; and she might 
have resented the idea that he had discussed her affairs with him. 
He would have done more wisely, probably, to have gone himself 
to her hotel, and left his card upon her. Then, if she chose to 
receive him, she could have written to him to that effect. His 
fears were set at rest by the receipt of the lawyer’s missive. The 
hours which must elapse, however, before he could present him- 
self in the Via Ludovisi were many, and he knew it was useless 
to deceive himself by the idea that by going to bed early he 
would pass the majority of them in sleep. 

He dined late, and after dinner wandered through the streets 
of the city, as he had done the previous evening, revisiting many 
of his favourite spots. The fine band of the carabinieri was play- 
ing in Piazza Colonna, and the square was thronged with Roman 
citizens listening to the music, or seated at the little tables outside 
the various cafes discussing the events of the day over their ices 
and granite in the intervals of reading the evening newspapers 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


189 


under the electric lights. Anthony crossed the piazza and made 
his way to the comparatively deserted quarters of the Ara Coeli 
and the Capitol, whence he descended the narrow flight of steps 
leading down to the Forum. A full moon was bathing the ruins 
in its soft light, bringing into sombre relief the cypress- crowned 
mass of the Palatine from the depths of the groves and mysterious 
courts of which the owls were hooting mournfully. In those days 
the archaeologists had not been let loose in the Foro Romano to 
work their learned will, and no barriers blocked the narrow pass- 
age skirting the base of the Palatine, and threading the gloomy 
approaches to the Palace of the Caesars until it finally emerged 
close to the Arch of Titus, and communicated directly with the 
Via Sacra and the mighty Flavian amphitheatre. Anthony Cuth- 
bert prolonged his walk by way of this passage — in these recent 
times closed to wanderers who would fain enjoy in their own 
ignorant manner the mighty associations with a vanished past 
without paying tribute to the detailed exactions of twentieth- 
century archaeology — and eventually found himself under the 
frowning walls of the Colosseum. He entered the building to dis- 
cover that he was absolutely alone in the vast theatre over which, 
hanging low in the violet sky, sailed the moon, illuminating the 
deserted tiers and casting its beams into the grim recesses of the 
excavated portions of the’ sub-arena. Not even a guttural excla- 
mation of wunder-schon I broke the intense stillness of the place ; 
only the occasional cry of an owl, and faint, far-off voices singing 
to the accompaniment of a low thrumming of guitars and mando- 
lines away in the long street leading to the Lateran. 

A few nights, Anthony reflected, he had been sitting out on 
the terrace at Cuthbertsheugh at this same hour, talking to Jim. 
The contrast between the wide Northumbrian landscape and the 
scene upon which his eyes now rested was strange indeed ! Seat- 
ing himself on a fragment of a shattered column he proceeded to 
light a cigar, and while he smoked it his thoughts reverted not to 
gladiatorial combats or early Christian martyrdoms, but to Cuth- 
bertsheugh, and to his nephew. He thought of the generous 
disinterestedness which Jim had shown in the course of the few 
days which had elapsed between the arrival of the news of prince 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


190 

del Monte’s death and his own departure for Rome. There were 
not many young men, he told himself, who would be so ready 
and willing to efface themselves for the sake of a middle-aged 
uncle. The lad, as he had always said, had a heart of gold ; and 
he had proved the purity of its metal. If he, Anthony, realised 
the dream of years ago which had been so cruelly and so evilly 
broken — if Laura still retained enough affection tor him to over- 
look his age and marry him — she must accept Jim’s presence at 
Cuthbertsheugh as though he were in reality a son of the house. 
She assuredly would be ready to do so when she had heard from 
him of how Jim had insisted that should his marriage to her ever 
become possible, he was not to consider the fact that he had 
promised to make him his heir, but was to think only of securing 
his own happiness. Well, luckily, as he had told the boy, he 
was able to provide for him handsomely, even if circumstances 
arose which would make it impossible for him to succeed to 
Cuthbertsheugh. In the meantime the old place would be 
Jim’s home, and he, Anthony, would continue to have the plea- 
sure of his companionship. He would urge him to leave the 
army, so that he would be free to spend more time at Cuth- 
bertsheugh. Some day, of course, Jim would himself marry— 
and when that day came there was a place in Yorkshire, at 
present let, which would do admirably as a home for him and 
his wife, and to which, together with the remainder of the York- 
shire estates, they would eventually succeed. But so long as 
the boy remained unmarried, Cuthbertsheugh must be his home. 
He would have plenty of occupation, since he, Anthony, would 
leave the management of the property as much as possible to 
him ; and this, coupled with learning the business connected 
with the Yorkshire estates, upon which there were collieries and 
coal-seams still waiting to be worked, would prevent the lad 
from being idle, or from feeling the loss of his profession. 

At this point of his reflections Anthony smiled to himself. 
What, he thought, would the county say if he brought an Italian 
wife to Cuthbertsheugh ? And what would be Jane’s attitude to 
her sister-in-law? No doubt the county, and Jane too, for that 
matter, would wish to believe that he had at last married the 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


191 

mistress he had kept in the background for so many years. 
Anthony felt that he could hear Mrs. Wilson of Heiferlaw Tower 
saying, “ My dear, at last he has made an honest woman of her ! 
When I see the duchess I shall ask what she intends to do about 
calling at Cuthbertsheugh.” Fortunately, however, Laura’s 
position, if she married him, would be unassailable. She would 
have to be married as what she was in the eyes of the law in her 
own country, princess del Monte, widow of the late, and, happily, 
the last representative of that title. The county would not be 
able to say that he had married a divorced woman, nor even one 
who had been legally separated from her first husband. Daughter 
of the duca di Carmagnano, and heiress to one of his titles and a 
considerable portion of his property, no word could be said 
against her own origin, and the accident that she had been 
married to a scoundrel with whom she refused to live could only 
beget sympathy for her, should the facts of the case ever become 
known in Northumberland. With her beauty, her charm of 
manner, and above all, with her knowledge of English, there 
was no fear that Laura would not speedily acquire her rightful 
position in the county as mistress of Cuthbertsheugh. 

Anthony threw away the stump of his cigar impatiently. 
“ Bah ! ” he exclaimed, “I am dreaming, as usual. I thought I 
was cured of that folly ! I am thinking of her as I knew her 
years ago. And that lawyer, Sangiorgi, warned me that she was 
changed. Well, she will find me changed too, the change which 
ten years or so make in a man when he has left five-and-thirty 
behind him. I have no doubt we shall both receive a shock ; 
and probably the idea of marrying me will never enter her head. 
I am an ass. I ought to be thinking about lions and early 
Christians, and here I am, in the Colosseum by moonlight, dream- 
ing like a boy of Jim’s age about matrimonial felicity ! ” 

Rising from his fallen column, he cast a lingering glance once 
more round the great amphitheatre, and then passed out through 
the dark archways into the open space beyond. The clock of 
the Capitol struck twelve ; and instead of retracing his steps past 
the Forum, he turned into the Via del Colosseo, and entering the 
first available cab, drove back to his hotel. 


192 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


Ten o’clock the following morning found Anthony Cuthbert 
at the small hotel, in a quiet street off the Via Ludovisi, in which 
the marchesa di San Vico was staying. “ Yes,” the porter in- 
formed him, “ the marchesa was in. Would the signore give his 
card ? ” 

Anthony did so, and the man, after reading the name, com- 
pared it with some words written on a piece of paper stuck up in 
his bureau. “ Favorisca,” he said, “ the marchesa received no 
visitors, and he had orders not to admit any one to her. But 
she had sent word to say that if a gentleman called whose name 
corresponded with that she had written down he was to be shown 
upstairs to her sitting-room.” Anthony was handed over to the 
escort of a waiter. As he mounted the staircase his heart beat 
quickiy. He took himself to task for his nervousness, telling 
himself again that he was behaving in a manner altogether in- 
consistent with his years, and forgetting how time had altered 
their respective circumstances since he had last seen Laura. The 
waiter tapped at a door ; a clear voice from within replied, 
“ Avanti ! ” and Anthony found himself inside the room. He 
held out his hand mechanically to the tall figure clothed entirely 
in white which advanced towards him, but no words rose to his 
lips. 

The marchesa di San Vico was the first to speak. “ It was 
good of you to think of coming to see me,” she said, “ and, after 
so long a time that we have not met, it is pleasant to find oneself 
remembered by an old friend ! ” 

Her manner was perfectly composed and natural. Anthony 
found himself wishing that it had been somewhat less so. She 
spoke in English, dwelling upon her words and giving its full 
value to their every syllable in the way he so well remembered. 

“You come from England?” she continued, as still Anthony 
did not speak. He was gazing at her, almost unconsciously trying 
to discover any outward change in her. There was none. The 
beautiful girl of twelve years ago had developed into a beautiful 
woman, that was all. But Anthony had known this already; 
when he had last seen her in her husband’s house, and she had told 
him that it would be better for her and wiser for them both if he 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


i93 


did not remain in Rome. It seemed to him that she had grown 
younger since those days, and that her face had lost the sad, 
troubled expression it had often formerly worn. A gleam of 
sunshine coming through the partially closed shutters fell upon her 
dark hair, turning it almost to auburn ; while her dress of creamy 
white, relieved only by a patch of crimson where a knot of roses 
was fastened on her breast, set off the warm tints of her colouring 
and the soft, velvet-blue of her eyes.” 

“ Yes ; I came from England,” answered Anthony. 

“So my lawyer, Sangiorgi, told me. You have been to see 
him, have you not ? ” 

“ I have. Do you think it very impertinent of me to have 
done so ? ” 

She smiled slightly. “ No ! unusual, perhaps, but not im- 
pertinent. But why did you not first come to me ? ” 

“ You forget that when I last left Rome, I left it because you 
told me not to come to see you. Besides, I did come to see 
you before calling on your lawyer,” and he told her of his 
attempt to find her at the palazzo near the Corso ; and how it 
was only by his chance meeting with the cavaliere Vezzi that he 
had known of the existence of the avvocato Sangiorgi, and had been 
enabled to enter into communication with him. “ Did your lawyer 
tell you why I have come out from England ? ” he added suddenly. 

“ Why ? No. He merely informed me that he had had a 
visit from an English gentleman who had begged him to tell me 
that he was in Rome and would like to see me if I would receive 
him. He showed me your card.” 

“ Sangiorgi has been discreet ! ” thought Anthony. 

“ Are you on your way further south ? It is not a usual 
season to choose for coming to Rome,” proceeded the marchesa 
di San Vico tranquilly. 

Anthony Cuthbert found his tongue. “ Listen, Laura ! ” he 
said quickly. “ I have come to see you — for no other reason. I 
only heard a few days ago of your husband’s death. A friend of 
mine — Castagnaro ; you know him — wrote to me from Paris about 
the accident. I had missed seeing it in the papers. But he did 
more than tell me about the accident. He said that there was a 

13 


T 94 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


rumour of your having been, well, financially ruined by del 
Monte, that he had made away with your fortune as well as his 
own. I wrote to various friends who I knew would be able to 
tell whether this report were true or not. When I heard that it 
was true, I came out here to see if I could be of any use to you — 
if, in short, you needed a friend who was prepared to do anything 
he could do for you. Oh, of course, I know I had no right to 
think you might want me ; why should you ? But for — for the 
sake of the past, Laura, I could not bear to think that you were 
in trouble and alone. Tell me that you do not think it very 
presumptuous of me ! ” 

She was silent for a few moments. “ Presumptuous ? No ! ’* 
she said presently. “ Only — ” and she paused. 

“ Only what ? ” 

“ Only, you make me feel more than ever ashamed of myself 
for the weakness I displayed then when I knew no better, and did 
not realise that I was being sacrificed to — Yes, it is true,” she 
broke off hurriedly, “ that man whom the world called my 
husband ruined me. I am left, so Sangiorgi gives me to under- 
stand, with nothing. San Vico, and all the property I inherited 
from my father, must be sold to pay off the mortgages prince 
del Monte placed upon them. But what does it matter? He 
has left me the most valuable of all things — my liberty ! ” 

Anthony was about to tell her that it was precisely because she 
had her liberty that he had come to her, but he checked himself. 
“Yes,” he said gently, “but liberty, if one has nothing else in the 
world, is a poor legacy. You have no brothers to look after 
your interests, and, if I am not mistaken, only very distant 
relatives who can probably be of no use to you. Will you not 
trust me, Laura ? Let me act for you with Sangiorgi. Perhaps 
between us we may be able to devise some scheme whereby your 
affairs can be placed on a more satisfactory footing than is the 
case at present. You can trust me to be discreet.” 

She looked at him. “You would do this for me, after the 
way in which I treated you then ? You are generous ! but your 
generosity wounds. I could not accept it, though I thank you 
all the same.” 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


i95 


“ Do you suppose that I have ever held you responsible for 
the way in which I was treated?” exclaimed Anthony. “You 
had no choice, Laura ! We need not go into that matter — not 
ever again.” 

She gave a little shiver of disgust. “ No,” she said eagerly. 
“ You are right ! do not let us ever allude to those times. I wish 
to bury them. Indeed, I have done my best to do so. You know 
— you will have heard — how I left that man, and how I refused 
to be known by his name.” 

“ I knew nothing, Laura, until yesterday. When you ex- 
plained to me that it would be better that I should not visit you 
here in Rome, I determined to go away, and to put myself out 
of your life entirely. You gave me to understand that I should 
only be adding to the difficulties of your position by remaining 
in Rome.” 

“ It was true, prince del Monte would sooner or later have 
said — well, you can understand what he would have said ! I 
did not choose that he should have that satisfaction.” 

“ Certainly I understood ! and, that being so, I felt that my 
only course was to do as I have said. I did not even ask 
Romans whom I chanced to meet in Paris or London for news 
of you, lest my doing so should be repeated to del Monte. 
Consequently, I never knew that you had definitely left him, and 
still less that you no longer called yourself by his name. That I 
only learned yesterday, when I went to the house in which you 
used to live, in order to ask if you were in Rome.” 

“ Yes ; it is now four years since I left that house, and at the 
same time took my own title of San Vico. I even abandoned 
the name of Laura, by which you still call me. It became hate- 
ful to me from its associations. I would have changed myself, 
had it been possible, in order to show him how bitterly I despised 
him — and myself for having been so weak as to be forced into 
marrying him ! Do not call me Laura — he used the name — and 
those who sacrificed me to him. I hate it ; and, until to-day, it 
is the first time for four years that I have heard it.” 

She spoke with a hard bitterness which almost shocked 
Anthony. This, indeed, was no longer the gentle, submissive 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


196 

girl he had loved years ago, nor yet the dignified and apparently 
indifferent woman he had left as princess del Monte. The 
avvocato Sangiorgi was right. The marchesa di San Vico was a 
different individual. 

“And if I am no longer to call you Laura, what then?” he 
asked presently. “ It will be difficult for me to accustom myself 
to any other name in connection with you. You were always 
Laura to me — never even Donna Laura — in the old days when 
you were little more than a child ! ” 

“ Let it belong to the past,” she returned. “ I call myself by 
my second name of Sonia. It was my grandmother’s name, and 
she was always good to me.” 

“ Sonia,” repeated Anthony — “ Sonia — well, it is a pretty 
name, as you pronounce it. But when you hear English people 
trying to say it — ” and once more he checked himself abruptly. 
“ I shall never accustom myself to it,” he added hastily, “ so you 
must forgive me if I lapse into the familiar Laura of old times. 
I suppose that you will not condemn me to call you ‘ marchesa ! ’ 
at least, in private. I remember that when I was here last I 
called you principessa, in public, and, I think, nothing, when we 
happened to find ourselves alone.” 

Anthony had by this time completely recovered his self- 
possession; and with it his tact. He turned the conversation 
into more navigable channels in which the number of partially 
submerged rocks were comparatively few. It is only, after all, in 
novels and on the stage that people at once plunge headlong into 
those subjects on which they happen to feel deeply. Ordinary 
mortals of flesh and blood are apt to be the most reserved at 
those very moments in their existence when there would appear 
to be every reason for their being the reverse. The immediate 
consequence of Anthony Cuthbert’s natural shyness, if such a 
term could be applied to his attitude, in the presence of the 
woman whom he now knew that, however much he might have 
attempted to deceive himself on the subject, he had never ceased 
to love, was that both of them spent a very pleasant hour 
together, and that both of them, moreover, felt agreeably sur- 
prised at the fact. The avvocato Sangiorgi would doubtless have 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


197 


been not a little perplexed could he have overheard their conver- 
sation ; and, probably, not a little disappointed. The “ scene,” 
indeed, which that worthy lawyer was picturing to himself as even 
then taking place in the prosaic sitting-room of the hotel-pension 
in which the marchesa di San Vico from motives of economy 
had selected for her temporary abode in Rome was being enacted 
solely in his own imagination. As a matter of fact, Anthony had 
been far less reserved with the marchesa’s man of business, with 
whom he had conversed for the first time in his life, than he was 
with the lady herself. 

It was only when he had glanced at a clock on the chimney- 
piece and saw that it was nearly half-past eleven, that he reverted 
to the special motive which had brought him to Rome. 

“ Tell me the truth, Laura — I cannot call you by the other 
name yet — you must give me time ! Tell me the truth,” he said 
suddenly, “you do need a friend, do you not? I am right in 
thinking that you are alone in the world — singularly alone for a 
woman of your position — and that — that there is no one else who 
has a better claim than I to be such a friend ? ” 

Sonia looked at him for a moment without replying. “ I am 
absolutely alone,” she said, “ but that I am so is the result of my 
own choice — of my own wish. You know Rome and our society 
in this country. My choice was of my own making. You, my 
friend, are a man of the world, and you are wondering why I 
made this choice, and how, having made it, I could abide by it.” 

Anthony felt a sudden sensation of relief at her words. “ It 
is true,” he said quietly. “Iam not talking now,” he added with 
a smile, “ to the girl, Laura Conti, but to the marchesa di San 
Vico. So, I can admit that you are perfectly right when you say 
that I am wondering why you should have made this choice. 
Very few people would have blamed you had you chosen to 
assume a different attitude,” he continued, “probably no one of 
your world.” 

“ And you — would you have blamed me ? ” she asked quickly. 

“I? Good heavens ! Am I what you Italians call such a ‘stinco 
di santo ’ ? There is not one woman in a thousand who, in the 
circumstances in which you found yourself, would not have taken 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


198 

what assuredly must often have been offered .to you. Most 
women would have taken it, if only out of a spirit of revenge. 
You must know how nearly you were being offered it by me. 
But you sent me away in time, and I, because I had loved you, 
and did love you, went.” 

“Yes,” said Sonia dreamily, “you — went. But I did not 
send you away because I loved you,” and she gave a quick sigh. 
“I sent you away,” she continued, “because you would have 
interfered with my plans. That sounds cynical, does it not? 
You said just now that many women would have given themselves 
to a lover out of a spirit of revenge, or that was what you 
meant to say. Well, I did not give myself to a lover — in those 
days — from precisely the same motive. To deny to prince del 
Monte what I was giving to another man, while I was still bearing 
his name and living under his roof, would have immeasurably 
strengthened his position, and as immeasurably weakened my 
own. I would not do him the honour of being unfaithful to him 
— you understand ? A husband who is ignored by a wife who 
has no lover presents a far more contemptible figure than one 
whose wife reserves for others what she refuses to him.” 

She spoke coldly and indifferently. Anthony Cuthbert under- 
stood now what her lawyer had meant when he had declared she 
could be cold almost to brutality where prince del Monte was 
concerned. Nevertheless, what he heard sent a sharp thrill of 
satisfaction coursing through his blood. 

“ Then,” he exclaimed eagerly, “ I am right ! There is no 
one else who has a better claim to be your friend, your adviser, 
than I.” 

“ There is no one else.” 

“ Then, Laura, you will not send me away from you again ? 
Not to do so will be the best use to which you can put your 
legacy.” 

“ My legacy ? ” 

“ Yes — of liberty ! ” 

“ Listen,” Sonia di San Vico said abruptly. “ I sent you 
away because I did not love you. I have told you so. At that 
time there was no place for love in my heart — no place for any 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


199 


other feeling than hatred, disgust, and disbelief in God and man. 
You were in my way. I wished for neither friend nor lover, 
but only to be left alone to work out my scheme for the humilia- 
tion of my — of prince del Monte. But listen! Afterwards, 
when my scheme had succeeded — when I had left prince del 
Monte’s house, rejected his name, and dared him to interfere 
with what I might or might not choose to do — I sent another 
man away from me, as I sent you ; but this time it was because 
I feared lest I should love him.” 

Anthony was silent. 

“And he,” he said presently, “he went, Laura?” 

“ He went, as you did, because he loved me — or thought 
he did ! He passed utterly and entirely out of my life — as I 
intended that he should pass.” 

“You could not have married him — when you were free?” 

“I could have married him — when I was free, yes. But 
nothing would have induced me to do so.” 

“May I ask you why?” said Anthony in a low voice. 

“Because he was too good for me. To have married me 
would have spoiled his life. Do you wish me to tell you 
more ? ” 

“ You have told me too much ! ” exclaimed Anthony. “ But 
when you tell me that he was too good for you — that to have 
married you would have spoiled his life — that is absurd, Laura ! 
But what does it matter? You say that he has passed out of 
your life. Well, I have come back into it. I want to hear and 
to know no more. I am not a £ stinco di santo,’ as I told you 
just now ; and, provided that no other man has a claim on you, 
nothing else matters to me.” 

“Nothing?” murmured Sonia. “Do you mean what you 
say, my friend ? — nothing ? ” 

“Nothing. When you left your — prince del Monte, you 
were free to do what you chose — at least that is how I look upon 
it, not being a moralist, but only a human being ! You never 
deceived del Monte ; he was only your husband in name — before 
the eyes of the law ” 

“ And of the Church ! ” 


200 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


“I belong to no ‘church.’ Neither I nor any other man has 
the right to call you to account for your actions during these 
last years. In my case, all that I have asked, or ever should 
ask, was to know that no man at this present time has more right 
than I to help you and stand by you while you are alone. You 
have told me that no other man could claim that right, and that 
is enough for me.” 

“You are generous,” said Sonia di San Vico in a low voice. 

Anthony shrugged his shoulders. “ I am merely just,” he 
said. “ I have never been able to see why there should be one 
code of morals for women, and another for men — except, of course, 
for purely domestic reasons ! And, as in your case domestic 
reasons certainly could not be said to exist, it is no use bringing 
them into the discussion! No, Laura, we are both people of 
the world, cured of our prejudices, and old enough to please 
ourselves. This being so, for goodness’ sake let us please our- 
selves ! We are both free. I can be of use to you at a time 
when you need a friend whom you can implicitly trust, and you 
— well, you will make me very happy by trusting me. Tell me 
that you will not send me back to England feeling that I 
have not succeeded in gaining your trust, if I can gain nothing 
more ! ” 

Sonia rose from her chair and held out her hand to him. 

“No,” she said; “as you wish it, I will not send you back 
to England with that feeling in your mind. Do what you think 
wise for me — you and Sangiorgi. It would go to my heart to 
sell San Vico and the Tuscan property. I should like to defeat 
him even in that. I should feel that it was my final victory. 
Now leave me, my friend — and thank you a thousand times for 
coming to me. We shall meet again to-morrow — no ? ” 

“To-morrow? Why not this afternoon?” said Anthony. 
“I will hire a carriage, and late in the evening, when it is cool, 
we will drive into the Campagna. Nobody will know who your 
companion is ; and, indeed, Rome seems to be absolutely empty. 
Besides, what does it matter if people do see us? That is 
settled, then ; and I will call for you here about six o’clock, and 
we will drive till nine. By the way, I have your permission to 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


201 


call on Sangiorgi again, and talk over your affairs with him, have 
I not? I think it would be fairer to him if you were to write 
him a note, and say that he might talk openly to me. He is an 
honest man, that lawyer, and seems devoted to your interests ; 
I feel sure that between us we shall be able to save your San 
Vico property.” 

“ Go to Sangiorgi as often as you like ! ” replied Sonia. “ You 
are quite right, he is honest, and he has been my only friend 
throughout all my troubles.” 

“ But not so any longer ! ” added Anthony. 

Sonia smiled. “ It seems not,” she said, and held out her 
hand again to him. 

Anthony bent over it and kissed it, in the courteous Italian 
fashion. 

“This evening, then,” he repeated, and then he left her. 


CHAPTER XVII 


A NTHONY CUTHBERT lost no time in again calling on 
L the avvocato Sangiorgi in order to acquaint him with the 
results of his first interview with the marchesa di San Vico. 
He went, indeed, to the offices in the Via del Tritone that same 
afternoon, and found that the lawyer had already received a note 
from the marchesa, the terms of which completely removed any 
scruples he might have had concerning a possible breach of pro- 
fessional etiquette in discussing his client’s affairs with a com- 
parative stranger, who was also a foreigner. The avvocato 
Sangiorgi speedily produced copies of documents which proved 
to Anthony that he had in no way exaggerated when he described 
the position of the marchesa di San Vico’s financial affairs as 
deplorable. Mortgages amounting in all to a total value of some 
thirty thousand pounds had been placed on Sonia’s Tuscan pro- 
perties. There was no disputing the validity of the deeds, since 
these all bore her signature, as well as that of her husband, and 
had been executed in accordance with the requirements of the 
law. Three-quarters of a million of francs was, as the lawyer 
pointed out, a very large sum with which to burden agricultural 
land and tenements. Arrears in payment of the interest on these 
mortgages had been one of the causes leading to the financial 
crash which finally obliged prince del Monte hurriedly to cross 
the frontier lest worst things should befall him. It was more than 
doubtful, the lawyer explained to Anthony, that the sale of the 
whole of the marchesa’s property would realise this sum, when all 
expenses had been paid ; on the other hand, she could not pos- 
sibly continue to pay the interest on the mortgages. The only 
alternative would be to allow the holders of the mortgages to 
foreclose and obtain what they could out of the proceeds of the 
forced sales of the estates. 


202 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


203 


Anthony refused to consider this last alternative. 

“ But, my dear sir/’ objected Sangiorgi,” “what is to be done? 
The bulk of the mortgages are at four per cent. — some of them at 
five, and even at six per cent. The marchesa can no more pay 
away nearly forty thousand francs a year in interest than she can 
repay the principal. It is out of the question. ,, 

“Nevertheless,” returned Anthony quietly, “the interest must 
continue to be paid, at any rate for the present ; if only to avoid 
foreclosing on the part of the creditors. A quarter of a million of 
francs is certainly a large sum to raise. A little time would be 
necessary, in order to realise the securities representing such a 
sum ! ” 

The lawyer stared at him. “ But you do not understand,” 
he said. “ It would be as easy for the marchesa to pay off the 
principal of these mortgages as to pay the interest upon it. Both 
courses are equal — an absolute impossibility ! ” 

“ To the marchesa di San Vico, perhaps ! but not to me.” 

“ To you ! ” repeated the avvocato Sangiorgi in astonishment. 

“Yes — not to me,” proceeded Anthony Cuthbert calmly. 
“ If it is not too late, and you are able to stay the threatened 
foreclosures, I am ready to take upon myself the responsibility for 
the payment of the interest upon them, and of the arrears in pay- 
ment, for the next twelve months. In the meantime we should 
be able to consider whether it would be advisable to give the 
holders of the mortgages the proper notice to the effect that the 
marchesa di San Vico intended to pay them off.” 

The lawyer remained speechless. “ Caro signore,” he said at 
length, “your proposal is — well — astounding ! You must forgive 
me if I find it so ! When you suggested to me, in the course of 
our conversation yesterday, that no doubt I could arrange that 
the marchesa should be relieved of her present embarrassments 
without allowing her to suspect that the money required to do so 
proceeded from any other source than the revenues of her estates, 
I concluded it was your wish, probably, to advance a certain sum 
with that object — a sum which I might reasonably assure the 
marchesa I had found means of realising. But such a sum~as 
this for which you propose to make yourself responsible is a very 


204 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


different matter ! The marchesa would know that I could not 
possibly have put my hand upon it — unless it had been advanced 
by a third person. And more than this — the world at large would 
know it also. Perbacco ! you speak of paying away forty thousand 
francs in interest as though such a thing were a trifle — and you 
contemplate as calmly paying off mortgages to the amount of 
seven hundred and fifty thousand francs as though that, too, were 
an everyday affair. I know that you English are rich — but to me, 
an Italian, the thing appears, as I said, to be astounding.” 

Anthony smiled. “ I told you, signore, that I happened to 
be a rich man, but I am certainly not so rich as to regard such 
sums with indifference, few people are, even among my country- 
men, who, by the way, are invariably credited by yours with being 
far richer than is usually the case. But I can afford, by making 
sacrifices, to gratify a whim ; and my whim at the present moment 
is to save the marchesa di San Vico the distress of seeing estates 
which have been in her family for many generations, and San 
Vico itself, to which she is greatly attached, from being sold to 
pay for prince del Monte’s fraudulent transactions.” 

The avvocato Sangiorgi bowed. “ You have a perfect right to 
do as you please with your own money,” he said. “ That is in- 
disputable. But I must remind you, my dear sir, of other con- 
siderations which, in a generous impulse to assist a lady in 
embarrassments contracted through no fault of her own, you 
appear to have overlooked. I am not speaking to you now as 
the marchesa di San Vico’s man of business. As such only it 
would be to my obvious advantage to accept your proposition 
without demur. I permit myself, however, to repeat an observa- 
tion which you made yesterday to me, and to speak, not as a 
lawyer, but as one gentleman to another. It would be impossible 
for you to assist the marchesa on so princely a scale, without 
giving rise to comments and conclusions which I need not specify. 
Even the production of far smaller sums than those which, un- 
fortunately, are in question would be viewed with suspicion, and 
disagreeable suggestions would be made to account for their 
origin.” 

“ Exactly,” replied Anthony, “ I had already foreseen this 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


205 


difficulty. But,” he added, “though of course I can understand 
that it would apply to the sudden redemption by the marchesa of 
all the mortgages on her property, it might well be supposed that, 
in the resettlement of her affairs after prince del Monte’s death, a 
way had been discovered whereby the interest on them could 
continue to be paid.” 

The avvocato Sangiorgi shook his head. “ Impossible,” he 
said briefly. “ Unluckily, the gossip created by this del Monte 
business has been too wide-spread. I am afraid, my dear sir, that 
you are still looking at the matter from the point of view of the rich 
Englishman, to whom the payment of a yearly sum equivalent in 
your money to some fifteen hundred pounds is a comparative 
trifle. With us, however, such a sum represents a considerable 
income. Nobody would credit that the marchesa di San Vico 
had unexpectedly found herself in the position to pay away a 
similar sum in interest alone. No, I confess I do not see my 
way to advising you to take such a responsibility upon yourself. 
If I did so, I should be conniving at exposing the marchesa to 
unpleasant insinuations, from which, I feel sure, you would be 
the first to wish to shield her.” 

“ Then what in the world is to be done ? ” exclaimed Anthony 
Cuthbert impatiently. “ The lands, and especially the estate of 
San Vico, must be saved. Upon that I am determined. We 
must think of some other means.” 

“ Precisely,” returned the lawyer drily. “ Perhaps you and the 
marchesa herself will be able to agree as to some plan whereby 
your intentions may still be carried out without exposing her to 
the risk of what I have suggested.” 

Anthony glanced at him quickly. “ I had hoped, as I said, 
that you, signor Sangiorgi, could have been able to have found 
some means whereby I could have advanced at all events a 
considerable proportion of the money necessary for the payment 
of the interest, without the marchesa guessing whence that money 
came.” 

The lawyer shrugged his shoulders. “Impossible!” he re- 
peated, “ surely, signore, you must see that for yourself ! Were 
it a matter of a few thousands of francs, it would be different. 


206 ANTHONY CUTHBERT 

But forty thousand — ” and he spread out his hands despair- 
ingly. 

“ I must think,” began Anthony hesitatingly. 

A sudden gleam of amusement came into the avvocato 
Sangiorgi’s keen brown eyes. “ Of course ! ” he observed. “ At 
the same time, I ought to remind you that there is no time to be 
lost. Unless I can meet the march esa’s creditors with some 
definite guarantee that their money will be paid to them without 
delay, no arguments of mine will prevent them from foreclosing. 
As you are — ahem — such an old friend of the marchesa, perhaps 
you could broach the subject to her in person, without offending 
her.” 

Anthony smiled. “ It is rather soon to attempt to do that,” 
he said. 

“ Caro signore, I cannot possibly give you an opinion on 
that question. It is altogether outside my province! I do 
not suppose, however, that your interview with the marchesa 
this morning left you with the impression that she was in 
mourning ? ” 

Anthony was unable to refrain from laughing. “ No,” he 
replied, “ I received no such impression, certainly. But let us be 
frank with one another. Of course I understand what you mean. 
You consider that unless the marchesa gave me — well, the official 
right to place this money at her disposal, I should only be doing 
her harm by advancing it ! ” 

“ Bravo ! The official right is a very good expression. Yes, 
that is my opinion. At the same time, I must tell you, signore, 
how relieved I should be were the marchesa and yourself to 
agree to a course which would remove all difficulties from our 
path. In that event, you would, indeed, need my professional 
services ; but at present, as I have said, I have only been able to 
give you the non-professional opinions of an ordinary man of the 
world on your suggestions. It remains, therefore, with you and 
the marchesa di San Vico to decide whether I am to proceed 
to take the legal steps necessary to stop the threatened fore- 
closures on these mortgages. And now, signore, I must ask 
you to excuse me, but I have an appointment at four o’clock, 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


207 


and it is nearly that hour already. Needless to say, I shall wait 
for the marchesa’s further instructions before taking any action in 
this matter. The last interview I had with her was painful 
enough. It was my duty to point out to her that I saw no hope 
of being able to prevent the forced sale of her lands, and that 
even her villa of San Vico — to which, as you know, she is much 
attached — would have to go with the rest.” 

Anthony Cuthbert walked away from the Via del Tritone 
in deep meditation. The lawyer, of course, was right. The 
sums of money necessary to free the San Vico property were 
too large. Anthony had never imagined that mortgages to the 
extent of nearly three-quarters of a million of francs would be 
in question. He had supposed that a half of that sum, or even 
less, would have represented their total. Del Monte must 
evidently have deliberately intended absolutely to ruin the 
woman who had married him. Doubtless it was his plan of 
revenge for her inexorable attitude towards him. It was ob- 
vious, however, that no man not possessing an official right to 
do so could benefit a woman to so large an extent without the 
world immediately declaring that he had received what he con- 
sidered to be sufficient repayment for his generosity. Anthony 
Cuthbert did not know whether to be pleased at the gravity of 
the position, or the reverse. Since the day when the news of 
prince del Monte’s death had reached him, and until to-day 
when he had seen Laura, he could not accustom himself to 
the stranger name of Sonia, again for the first time after four 
years, he had not had the courage to confess to himself that 
he was determined to marry her, if she would have him. Now, 
he had no hesitation in telling himself frankly that to marry 
her was the sole scope of his journey to Rome. He realised, 
as he had never perhaps done before, how empty and un- 
satisfactory had been the last twelve years of his life during 
which he was trying to forget her. The very fact of his having 
at once come to Rome to see her when he learned that she 
was a free woman, must surely be a proof to her that he had 
never forgotten, but was ready to marry her still. But, on the 
other hand, the very conditions in which Laura found herself 


208 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


situated with regard to that most important of all things, money, 
might very easily prove a serious obstacle to his hopes of gaining 
her consent to marrying with as little delay as possible. She 
might suspect that he was asking her to be his wife rather out 
of a spirit of compassion for her than of love ; and this suspicion, 
he felt, would be enough not only to rouse her pride, but also 
her resentment, that she should be an object of compassion on 
account of del Monte’s conduct to her. If only he could have 
had time, he thought, his plan of attack would have been much 
more easy to organise. He would have gradually made her 
forget all her disillusions of the past in a present to which she 
would come to regard him as indispensable. But Sangiorgi had 
been careful to impress upon him that there was no time — that 
anything which could be done to save the San Vico property 
must be done at once. How was he, Anthony, to persuade 
Laura that if she would consent to an immediate marriage, he 
would have no fear, or even the most distant suspicion that 
this consent was merely given in order to save herself from an 
intolerable position in the present, and absolute penury in the 
future ? “ Damn del Monte ! ” he exclaimed out loud, causing 

a passer-by to turn round and stare at him as yet another 
specimen of a mad Englishman in the streets of Rome. “ Damn 
del Monte ! Even after his death he has succeeded in arranging 
complicated situations ! ” 

A few minutes before six o’clock the victoria which Anthony 
had requested the manager of his hotel to engage for him during 
the remainder of his stay in Rome was announced as awaiting 
him, and he drove at once to the Via Ludovisi. 

It was one of those Roman summer evenings which more 
than atone for the sultry heat of the earlier hours. The breeze 
from the sea which, in the height of summer, usually comes to 
cool the heated atmosphere of the city after midday, had died 
away, to be succeeded by a light air from the north, too slight to 
stir a leaf on the trees, but bringing with it the comparative fresh 
ness of approaching night. Anthony had not long to wait before 
Sonia descended from her rooms. They drove out of the Porta 
Pinciana into the Villa Borghese — in those days not the ill-kept 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


209 


and squalid public pleasure-ground it has since become. The 
sun, sinking gradually down towards Monte Mario, tinged the 
stems of the stone-pines in the Piazza di Siena to a dusky red, in 
vivid contrast to the dark shades of the ilex groves with the 
ancient fountains dreamily splashing beneath them. At Sonia’s 
request they did not linger within the grounds of the villa. The 
few people likely to know her who were left in Rome would pro- 
bably be driving in them till nearly nightfall, and neither she nor 
Anthony had any wish to encounter acquaintances. Anthony 
directed the coachman to drive out by the great gates by the 
Porta del Popolo ; and thence, instead of going through the 
centre of the city, to cross the Tiber and take them to the de- 
serted regions of the Aventine — at that hour of a summer evening 
one of the most beautiful spots in Rome, with its views over the 
Campagna to the hills, its peaceful convent gardens, and general 
atmosphere of dignified protest against the strife and turmoil of 
the neighbouring city. 

“ I have been again to see your lawyer,” Anthony said to his 
companion, as the carriage turned into the Lungo Tevere. “ He 
had received your note, and so he was more at his ease with me 
than at our first meeting.” 

“ He could tell you nothing new, of course ? ” 

“ I am afraid not, Laura.” 

“ Laura ! Have I not told you that I would not be called by 
that name ? ” 

“ Very well, Sonia, then ! ” replied Anthony humbly. “ But,” 
he added, “ when one has thought of a person for years by one 
name, it is not so easy suddenly to use a fresh one ! You were 
fourteen, I remember, when I first knew you, and called you 
Laura.” 

“ If it had been only you who had called me so,” returned 
Sonia di San Vico, “ I should not hate the name as I do. But 
every one who combined to deceive me when I was a girl called 
me Laura. Via ! do not let us talk about it,” she added im- 
patiently. 

“ At any rate I never deceived you ! ” said Anthony quickly. 

“ You ? no ! It was rather I who deceived you ! ” 


210 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


“ You had no choice ; you did what you were made to do, 
and what you thought was your duty. If I had not always under- 
stood that, do you suppose I should be here now ? ” 

Sonia was silent for an instant. “ After all,” she said sud- 
denly, “ what is the use of your being here? You have come 
out from England at a time when no sensible person leaves your 
cool climate to come to our hot one, and you can do — nothing ! 
Sangiorgi will have told you as much this afternoon.” 

“ If I can do nothing — which I will never admit unless you 
oblige me to admit it — you can do a great deal,” Anthony 
replied, looking at her earnestly. 

“I?” 

“ Certainly ! I hope to make you understand all that you 
can do — for yourself — and for me. What is that monstrous 
erection?” he continued abruptly, pointing to the scaffoldings 
surrounding the new Palace of Justice, then in the early days 
of its construction. 

Sonia told him. “ It is rather like building stables when 
there are no horses to put into them,” she said drily. 

Anthony laughed. “ Yes,” he replied, “ I must confess that 
your systems of justice in this country are peculiar. A man 
remains for years in prison awaiting trial for a crime of which, 
after all, he may be innocent, and some atrocious murderer, 
caught red-handed, gets a few months. I should think a few 
more honest lawyers like your Sangiorgi, for instance, are wanted. 
The more I see of him, the more I am struck by his devotion 
to your interests, Sonia.” The carriage recrossed the Tiber 
by the bridge of San Angelo, and threaded the narrow streets 
lying between it and the entrance to the Palatine. “ What do 
you say ? ” asked Anthony. “ Shall we play at being tourists, 
and go up on to the Palatine ? I have not been there for years. 
But perhaps you do not care to walk.” 

“ On the contrary,” Sonia said, “ I should like to walk a 
little. Until you came, I have done nothing but sit in the hotel. 
As to the Palatine, shall I confess to you that I have never been 
there in my life ? Once, I think, I have been in the Colosseo, 
and once I was taken round the Foro Romano — I hated it. 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


2 1 1 


My feet ached from walking over the rough stones, and my head 
ached from hearing about Julius Caesar and the Vestal Virgins. 
Let us go to the Palatine, by all means ; but if you begin to talk 
to me about the emperors, I shall not listen ! ” 

“ Many Romans know nothing of these places,” said Anthony, 
laughing. 

“ I am not a Roman ! ” exclaimed Sonia di San Vico quickly. 
“The Tuscans call the Romans ‘ figli di preti/ No; I prefer 
our Tuscan gardens and ; our campagna ridente to these dreary 
ruins and mouldering tombs of Rome ! ” 

An expression of sadness came over her face as she spoke, 
and Anthony knew that she was thinking of her beloved San 
Vico which would soon be hers no longer. He stopped the 
carriage at the entrance to the Palatine, and, telling the coach- 
man to wait, they got out and paid their francs for admission. 
Walking slowly up the long ascent, they gained the plateau 
immediately above the Forum, and sat down on a bench beneath 
the ilex trees. The columns and temples of the Forum were 
bathed in the rays of the evening sun ; while beyond them the 
great semicircular mass of the Colosseum rose red as though 
stained with blood, as the glow caught its rugged masonry. 
Presently they wandered onwards through the deserted courts 
and roofless halls of the palace, coming at last to the furthest 
angle of the hill, whence, framed in the ruined archways, each 
forming a priceless picture more beautiful than the other, are the 
marvellous views over the Campagna to the hills and mountains 
engirdling it. With the exception of a small group of Germans, 
conscientiously picking their way from one spot to another with 
their open guide-books in hand, Anthony and Sonia had the 
place to themselves. The green lizards darting across the pave- 
ments, or in and out of the cool, green acanthus leaves, were 
their only companions. Above them, in the clear blue sky 
which at Rome gives so singular an impression of overwhelming 
immensity, the swifts pursued each other with shrill screams; 
otherwise, silence reigned supreme over the palace of the 
Caesars. 

Sonia sat down on a block of marble and gazed at the 


212 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


distant views with a sigh of satisfaction. “Anthony,” she said 
presently, “if you dare to mention Nero, or Caligula, I shall 
go away. Look at those Germans ! They are measuring the 
length of that pavement. As if it mattered ! There is that to 
look at ” — and she pointed to the pictures beneath the archways 
— “and all they are thinking about is whether their guide-books 
are correct ! ” 

Anthony seated himself beside her. “ Do not be afraid,” he 
said, smiling, “ I do not take the least interest in Nero, especially 
at the present moment. Besides, I don’t think he had anything 
to do with making this portion of the Palatine, and certainly 
nothing at all to do with making the view ! I am thinking of 
how to be of use to you, Sonia, of how to make your life happier 
in the future than it has been in the past.” 

“Nobody can help me,” she returned, a little bitterly. “I 
must try to find some way of helping myself. Some women 
would help themselves by taking to religion, and entering a 
convent, but I have not much religion and, what would be a far 
more serious deficiency in the eyes of the convent, no money ! ” 

“ Do not talk nonsense ! ” observed Anthony Cuthbert tran- 
quilly, “ and do not be bitter. The Laura I used to know was 
never that ! ” 

She looked at him and laughed slightly. “You are not very 
polite, my friend ! ” she observed. “ But you English pride your- 
selves on being — how do you say ? — plain-speaking.” 

“ Plain-spoken — sometimes, when it is necessary.” 

“ And you think it is necessary now ? ” 

“ Most decidedly I do ! You say that you must try to find 
a way of helping yourself. That is exactly what I wish you to 
do. The way is easy. Moreover, by helping yourself, you 
would help me.” 

“I should help you ? ” 

“Incalculably — immeasurably! Listen, Sonia! Surely you 
must know what has brought me here? I have come because 
you are free — free to repair the injury you were once compelled 
to inflict upon me. Will you not repair it, Sonia! or will you 
send me away again — for ever? I have wanted you, and you 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


213 


only ; but, knowing that you would never take any steps to free 
yourself, I tried to forget you. I was deceiving myself. All 
these years, I have only been waiting, hoping that some fate, 
some accident would set you free. Now fate has intervened, 
and are you going to refuse me the reward for my patience ? ” 

The words rose to his lips almost against his will, and would 
not be restrained, although Anthony feared that he was being too 
precipitate. He waited in an agony of suspense for her answer. 

Sonia shook her head. “You ask me to do a thing which 
would be a — a viltal” she exclaimed. “Do you suppose that 
I do not understand why you are making me this offer? In 
your generosity, you have wished to help me — with your money ; 
and you have found that you cannot do this without marrying 
me.” Anthony Cuthbert paused for a few moments before 
answering her. The die was cast now ; and all depended upon 
his ability to clear her mind of any suspicion that compassion 
had prompted his offer. 

“ You are wrong,” he said quietly, “ and you wrong me. 
Until to-day I did not know the full extent of your financial 
difficulties ; and now that I do know it, I do not care. Do you 
understand? — I do not care. The fact of your being practically 
ruined does not affect my position .in any way, and my position 
is simply this : I have always loved you ; you were to have been 
my wife. For years I have waited for you, because you were 
not free. You never loved the man you were made to marry 
— you loathed him. What, then, should prevent you from 
loving me, and why should you say that, because I come to you 
again to ask you to be my wife, I am asking you to do a 
vileness? It is ridiculous. Money does not enter into the 
question; but my love for you, and my happiness do enter. 
Would you deny me happiness simply because I happen to be 
a rich man, and because, by consenting to marry me, you would 
also secure your own position, and defeat those deliberate 
schemes which del Monte had formed for ‘ starving you out,’ as 
he expressed it, and forcing you to return to him ? ” 

His concluding words had an immediate effect on Sonia. 

“ He said that ! ” she exclaimed. “ You believe that these 


214 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


mortgages were placed upon San Vico with the deliberate 
intention of obliging me to starve, or to go back to him ? Oh, 
it was vile, vile ! but not more vile than all the rest.” 

“ I believe it,” answered Anthony, “ and so does Sangiorgi. 
So, if it comes to that, do others. But we need not enter into 
del Monte’s reasons for defrauding you as he did. Let us leave 
money entirely out of the question. Why, I ask you again, 
should you not be able to give me the love you once made 
me believe you had for me? Is it because I am grown 
so much older that you are afraid of giving yourself to me? 
I am not so old, Sonia ; if I were, I could not love you as 
I do ! ” 

“ It is not that — ” and she hesitated. 

“ What is it, then ? ” 

“ I told you this morning,” she replied in a low voice, “ that 
I had once met some one whom I knew I should have loved — 
if I had not sent him away from me — whom I had begun to love, 
perhaps, even when I thought that I was only a prey to passion — 
a passion which up to then I had never allowed myself to enter- 
tain for any man. It was not so long ago that — that episode ! 
and since it happened, I know that I am no longer the same 
woman. Oh, I cannot explain, and you will not oblige me to 
do so ; but I know — I feel — that nothing else in my life could 
be the same as — as that / ” 

Anthony Cuthbert looked away from her. The Germans were 
still disputing as to the errors in their guide-book. Their guttural 
exclamations mingled with the screaming of the swifts overhead. 

“Why did you send him away?” he asked presently, and 
the tones of his voice were dull and almost cold. 

“I told you why. He was a boy, almost. In time, pro- 
bably, he would have got tired of me. It was better to send 
him away. Besides, at that time, he would have interfered with 
the life I had determined to lead so long as prince del Monte 
should be alive.” 

Anthony looked at her curiously. It was an obsession, that 
idea of hers, to revenge herself upon her husband by allowing no 
lover to enter into her life. 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


215 


“ And this — episode — it has closed your heart to any other 
love ? ” he asked bitterly. 

“I do not know. I was mad, perhaps — wicked, certainly — 
but I wanted to know what love was. Anthony, I made him 
.ove me, or think that he loved me. I set myself to do it, 
deliberately, purposely. And then I realised the folly of it all 
for him if I allowed him to become entangled with a woman 
older than he, and one who neither could nor would marry him. 
I realised, too, the danger to myself — that the moment was fast 
coming when I should not have the strength to send him from 
me. Now, having heard this, you must realise that I am not 
worthy of your offer, I do not ask you what you think of me ! ” 

“ Hush, Laura ! I think nothing — nothing bad, at all events. 
You were free, as I told you, when you alluded to this before — 
and — and I think I understand. You had refused yourself so 
much, for so long, that at last your own nature rebelled against 
your tyranny. We need not moralise, you and I. In whose 
lives have the laws of morality and the imperative demands of 
nature not clashed at some time or another ? and we know which 
conquer at least once, and generally oftener ! In time the im- 
pression of this — we will always call it an episode — will wear 
away, and your heart will be free to give me all that you would 
once have given me. Until that time comes, give me all you can. 
I shall be content, since it will be far more than I have dared to 
hope for. We will bury the past, every detail of it, and never 
allude to it again, not even to this last detail which you have felt 
bound to tell me. I will take you away to a new life, in a new 
country. And every spring we will come back to San Vico, for 
if you consent, Laura, we will save San Vico, and del Monte’s 
schemes will have ended in miserable failure ! Listen, I will not 
take no from you, never again, and if you send me away from 
you I will not go ! You like me quite well enough to marry me. 
We are neither of us so young as to require perpetual sentiment. 
Give me your consent, and take the new life I offer you. Speak, 
Laura — Sonia, speak ! ” 

“Let me think,” she replied, “I must have time. You talk 
as though you were already my lord and master, and yet you 


2 1 6 ANTHONY CUTHBERT 

know that I am a woman with a strong will.” And she smiled a 
little. 

Anthony seized both her hands in his own, regardless of the 
Germans, who, after all, would have done far more than this had 
they been placed in similar circumstances. “ But I have a 
stronger will ! ” he exclaimed, “and I mean to marry you, Laura ! 
I mean to make you help yourself.” 

“ You must give me time,” she returned. 

“None!” 

“ Twenty-four hours ! ” 

.Anthony took out his watch. “I will allow you fourteen 
hours ! ” he said. “It is now past seven. At ten o’clock to- 
morrow morning I shall come to your hotel for your answer. If 
it is ‘ No,’ I shall come again until it is ‘ Yes.’ ” 

Sonia rose to her feet. Then she sat down again hastily; 
and Anthony saw that she had suddenly become very pale. “It 
is nothing,” she said, in reply to his anxious inquiries; “I felt 
giddy, that was all. You are generous, Anthony, generous ! and 
I not worthy — you do not understand all ” 

“I understand all I mean to understand,” Anthony said, 
“and I will hear no more, neither now nor at any future time.” 

He spoke abruptly, even sternly ; and Sonia rose again from 
the block of marble and accompanied him through the vast halls 
of the Palatine in silence, nor did she utter more than a few 
words throughout the remainder of their drive back to the Via 
Ludovisi. 


CHAPTER XVIII 



ARO signore,” observed the avvocato Sangiorgi, “when 


a woman says that she must have time to think over an 
offer of marriage, or even one in which the idea of matrimony is 
not included, it is usually a sign that she has already made up her 
mind, in the affirmative. I congratulate you very heartily, and 
perhaps I may add that I congratulate myself nearly as much. 
Corpo di Bacco ! it is a splendid affair — a magnificent affair ! ” 
and he rubbed his hands ecstatically. 

“ Thank God it is settled ! ” Anthony Cuthbert exclaimed, with 
a sigh of relief. “ I had to be firm,” he added, “ indeed some- 
thing more than firm, otherwise my proposal would have been 
rejected. As I told you I feared might be the case, the marchesa 
at once taxed me with making her this offer in order that I might 
have the right to help her financially — a proposal made out of 
compassion, in short. Fortunately, I was able to show her that 
this was not so ; and that my presence in Rome before I had 
learned from you the full details of her financial situation proved 
it. Now the question is as to how the marriage can take place 
with as little delay as possible. There is nothing to wait for, and 
everything to be gained by concluding it at once.” 

“ Have you explained as much to the marchesa ? ” asked the 
lawyer. 

“ No, not yet ! ‘ Chi va piano, va sano,’ as you know ! It has 
been sufficient for the moment to obtain her consent. In the 
meantime, signore, you will certainly have no further objections 
to receiving from me the sum of money necessary to pay the 
arrears of interest due on these mortgages.” 

“ Si figuri ! ” exclaimed the other. “ Believe me, my dear 
sir, to me this solution of a most impossible situation comes as a 


2 l8 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


relief unexpected as it is welcome. For years I have fought the 
marchesa di San Vico’s battles with that mascalzone of a husband 
of hers, so far as my professional position allowed me to enter 
into them. I have a great respect for the marchesa’s spirit and 
her absolute frankness of disposition, though I confess that I 
have sometimes thought she carried both a little too far, and have 
not scrupled to tell her so. Until you appeared upon the scene I 
saw nothing but disaster in front of us. None of the creditors 
could have been paid ” 

“ Yourself among them,” interrupted Anthony, with a smile. 

The avvocato spread out his hands with a gesture which might 
have meant indifference. 

“ I have never troubled the marchesa with my own claims 
upon her,” he answered. “The peculiar circumstances of her 
case from the first aroused all my sympathies, and I have never 
regarded her in the light of an ordinary client. Of course, I do 
not mean to pretend I shall not be glad to find that the time I 
have spent on her affairs has not been wholly unremunerative 
from a pecuniary point of view ! ” 

Anthony Cuthbert smiled again. “ That, signore,” he observed 
courteously, “ has now become my business, since I, too, have 
become your client. My idea,” he continued, “is to place in 
your hands with as little delay as possible the sum required to 
pay all interest due on the mortgages. I shall telegraph to-day 
to my bankers in London to authorise a bank here to honour my 
cheque for the amount, and in the meantime at once to sell 
certain stock which is always realisable in the open market. By 
to-morrow I shall, therefore, be able to place the money in your 
hands, and San Vico will be saved, for the moment at all events. 
Afterwards, we will consider the question of advising the mort- 
gage-holders that the marchesa intends to pay them off the 
principal at the expiration of the proper legal notice, unless a 
considerably reduced rate of interest were accepted.” 

The avvocato Sangiorgi made a few rapid notes on a slip 
of paper while Anthony was speaking. “ Benissimo ! ” he ob- 
served, “ I will write to them to-day to the effect that the interest 
will be paid immediately. The other matter we will leave for 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


219 


future consideration. It will be sufficient for the present to 
stay the threatened foreclosures. And the marriage, signore? 
Arrangements will have to be made for that, I conclude ! ” 

“ Naturally,” returned Anthony ; “ and those arrangements, 
also, must be put in hand immediately.” 

“I imagine that, being English, you are a Protestant?” the 
lawyer remarked. 

Anthony laughed. “ I am nothing at all,” he said ; “ in the 
sectarian sense, I mean ! ” 

The other smiled. “ Most of us are nothing at all, in that 
sense,” he observed drily, “ only, in this country, not all of us 
have the courage openly to say so. I asked the question,” he 
continued, “ because, as you no doubt are aware, there are diffi- 
culties which are apt to arise in the case of marriages between 
persons of different faith. You would neither of you, I imagine, 
be content with a civil marriage only — oh, not from any pre- 
judices concerning religion — I do not mean that — but in order to 
avoid offending the prejudices of others.” 

“I am sure,” replied Anthony, “ that the marchesa would 
wish to be married according to the usual custom. It would be 
absurd for me to stipulate that our marriage should be repeated 
in a Protestant church, holding the opinions I do. I con- 
clude that the civil ceremony, followed by the religious rite in 
a Catholic church, would be sufficient to guarantee my wife’s 
respectability, would it not ? ” 

The lawyer laughed. “ Undoubtedly,” he replied. “ I 
imagine,” he continued, “ that, especially as you would have no 
ceremony according to the forms of your English Church, the 
marriage would also have to be performed according to English 
law at your Consulate.” 

Anthony shrugged his shoulders. “ As many times as may 
be necessary,” he said resignedly. “ I suppose that one ecclesi- 
astical function and two civil functions would surely be sufficient 
to convince the world that the marchesa di San Vico and myself 
were not living in adultery.” 

“ Probably,” returned the avvocato, with a twinkle of mirth 
in his eyes. “ But there remains a serious legal difficulty of 


220 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


which you, no doubt, are unaware. Indeed, most people, even 
in this country, *are unaware of it.” 

“ What is that ? ” asked Anthony quickly. “ Doubtless,” he 
added, “it can be surmounted. There is a way round most 
legal difficulties.” 

“Not round this one, I fear,” returned the lawyer. “ By a 
clause in our Italian Civil Code, a widow is compelled to wait 
until two hundred and eighty days have elapsed since the death 
of her husband, before contracting a fresh marriage. No marri- 
age is recognised as valid according to our law which has been 
performed within that period.” 

Anthony started back, with a dismayed look on his counte- 
nance. “ Two hundred and eighty days ! ” he repeated. “ Ten 
months, or so ! ” 

“ Precisely. Ten months. The reason is obvious.” 

“ Good Lord ! ” muttered Anthony Cuthbert to himself in his 
own tongue. “ A close-time for widows ! What in the world is 
to be done ? But, my dear sir,” he continued, “ in this case, the 
reason for your clause, which I quite admit to be both obvious 
and practical, does not exist. A woman who for more than 
four years had abandoned her husband’s roof, who — well, who 
had notoriously put an end to all intercourse with him — surely, 
in such a case, the clause you mention could not logically be 
enforced ! ” 

“ I regret to say that, very illogically, it is enforced. The law 
takes no cognisance of any such circumstances. If the marchesa 
di San Vico — or rather, as the law regards her, the principessa del 
Monte — had lived apart from prince del Monte for ten years, for 
any period you like, she could still not contract a second marri- 
age prior to the expiration of the term I have named. A public 
official performing such a marriage would render himself liable to 
a fine of three thousand francs, and dismissal from his office. A 
priest could with difficulty be found to solemnise the religious 
rite, if he knew that the civil ceremony could not legally be per- 
formed. I do not say that no such priest could be found, but 
the princess would have to content herself with a purely ecclesi- 
astical ceremony, and, in the eyes of our law, she would not be 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


221 


your legal wife, nor could you exercise any legal control over her 
person or her property.” 

“ I never heard of such a thing ! ” exclaimed Anthony, 
astonished. 

“As a matter of fact, very few people know of the existence 
of the clause. It is so unusual, I may say, so unheard of, for a 
woman in Italy to marry again within a year or two of her first 
husband’s death, that the question has hardly ever arisen. I 
believe there has been only one instance before the Courts of 
such a re-marriage ; and in that instance the next-of-kin of the 
first husband disputed the validity of the widow’s second marriage 
as being contrary to the clause I have mentioned. The Courts 
declared the marriage invalid. I regret to be obliged to raise 
this difficulty ; but, as you see, I am powerless to remove it.” 

“ Nevertheless, it must be removed,” said Anthony Cuthbert 
doggedly. “I believe,” he continued, “that the marchesa, 
emancipated as she is in her religious ideas, would be quite con- 
tent for the present with an ecclesiastical ceremony. You know 
what women are in these matters ; they cling to traditions. Sup- 
posing that we could find a priest to marry us according to the 
form of the Church, could not the civil ceremony be postponed 
until the expiration of the ten months ? ” 

The avvocato Sangiorgi looked at him penetratingly. “ With 
any other man than yourself I should decline to enter into such 
a proposition,” he said, after a pause. “We lawyers have had 
enough trouble here in Italy with the priests attempting to place 
their religious formalities above the requirements of the law. In 
thousands of cases the woman’s religious superstitions have been 
exploited by unscrupulous lovers who have persuaded them to be 
married in a church only, and have then abandoned them. In any 
other case I should confine myself to ensuring that the require- 
ments of the civil law were rigidly fulfilled with regard to the 
marchesa di San Vico’s second marriage ; and whether a religious 
marriage were or were not performed would be a matter of perfect 
indifference to me. With you, signore, the matter is different. 
I know whom I am dealing with, and that the marchesa’s interests 
are as safe in your hands as in mine. Yes ; as a matter of fact, 


222 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


if the marchesa were content to remain for ten months as your 
wife in the eyes of her Church only — and not in the eyes of the 
law of her country — you could, at the expiration of two hundred 
and eighty days, go through the civil ceremony, which would 
alone enable her to claim her official status as your wife here, and 
give you the legal rights of a husband. No pains and penalties 
would be attaching to this course.” 

Anthony Cuthbert thought for a moment or two. “ If that 
is so,” he said presently, “the difficulty would seem not to be 
insuperable. I must consult the marchesa. If she agrees ^and 
consents to trust me, we will find a priest, and the rest must wait. 
I shall insist, however, on being legally married to the marchesa 
di San Vico according to the civil form obtaining in England ; 
and this can be done at the British Consulate. It would be a 
mere question of the marchesa not becoming my legal wife in 
Italy until ten months had elapsed. However, as we should not 
be residing in Italy, but in England, where she would be both 
legally and ecclesiastically my wife, this would be a mere detail.” 

“ That is true,” observed the lawyer. “ It is also true,” he 
added, “ that in the present instance there are no next-of-kin of 
prince del Monte who would be at all likely to come forward and 
dispute the marriage. Nobody would have anything to gain by 
proving to the world that they were that gentleman’s legal heirs 
and representatives ; they would only have a great deal to lose,” 
he concluded significantly. 

“ That makes matters all the more easy,” said Anthony. “ I 
will talk to the marchesa this afternoon.” 

“There is one more point I must impress upon you,” re- 
sumed the avvocato, “and that is, that the marchesa must be 
married both religiously and civilly under her proper legal title of 
princess del Monte. In the eyes of the law and of the world she 
is the widow of prince del Monte. The fact that she has for 
long chosen to call herself by one of her own titles is of no legal 
importance or account.” 

“Ah,” observed Anthony, “I had forgotten that. Well, 
signore, it does not signify. It will be the last time that she will 
have to use the name of del Monte. In England she will be 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


223 


Mrs. Cuthbert. In this country, of course, she can continue to 
call herself by her own title, and, as that title is a genuine and an 
ancient one, it would be quite right that she should not abandon 
it. I shall see the marchesa this afternoon, and you may be sure 
that I shall do my best to induce her to consent to our marriage 
being performed without delay. I shall then take her to her 
English home. Her affairs, as she and I both know well, will be 
safe in your hands ; and in the spring we shall take up our abode 
at San Vico.” 

That evening he again drove with Sonia until dusk. Having 
yielded to his persuasions and arguments, Sonia seemed as though 
she were only anxious to forget past troubles and throw herself 
into the interests which her new life was to bring with it. 
Anthony’s quiet determination, and his assumption that she 
would of course acquiesce in all his suggestions gradually pro- 
duced the effect upon her which he had hoped might be the 
case. The feeling that she was no longer to fight her way through 
life alone, that there was somebody at her side to think and act 
for her, and to take all responsibility off her shoulders, was as 
comforting as it was novel. And Anthony Cuthbert, seeing the 
change in her, rejoicing in the grateful submission with which she 
received all his propositions whereby they should be united with 
as little delay or ceremony as possible, could not but congratulate 
himself on the success of his diplomacy. 

In the course of their drive in the campagna beyond 
Acqua Traversa, he talked to her at length about the new 
life which was awaiting her at Cuthbertsheugh ; and at his 
descriptions, partly cynical and always humorous, of what she 
might have to contend against at the hands of his Northumbrian 
neighbours when she was first introduced to the county, his 
descriptions of the comments and the gossip to which the news 
of his marriage to an Italian princess would infallibly give rise, 
caused Sonia di San Vico every now and then to burst into un- 
restrained laughter. 

“It will be delightful,” he said, “to see you and my sister 
Jane together. She will be divided against satisfaction at feeling 
that I have really married a respectable woman, and sorrow that 


224 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


the respectable woman in question should be a foreigner, and, 
above all, a Roman Catholic. She will try to convert you, of 
course. And she will be under the constant impression that you 
are trying to convert me and everybody else at Cuthbertsheugh 
down to the youngest stable-lad. She will picture to herself 
Jesuit priests arriving from Rome and waiting at table in the 
disguise of footmen. But, all the same, she will be loyal to you, 
and she will stand by you in the county, especially if — well, she 
will soon give you to understand what she expects of you. I 
know Jane. She is intensely exasperating at times, but au fond 
she is a good soul, with all her eccentricities. And you will learn 
to know Jim, and to be as devoted to him as I am.” 

“Ah, your nephew,” replied Sonia. “You need not tell me 
that you are fond of him, for I know it from your manner of 
speaking of him. But probably Jim, as you call him, will not 
like me ; he will regard me as an intruder.” 

Anthony smiled. “ There is no fear of that,” he said. “ I 
have talked to you about him, it is true, Sonia ; but we have had 
so many other things to think of and talk about that I have not 
told you half what I wish you to know about that nephew of 
mine.” 

“ Tell me all about him,” returned Sonia. “ I think you said 
yesterday that you had looked upon him as your heir — and that 
he was more like a younger brother to you than a nephew. It 
must be delightful — that ! But that is why I fear he will dislike 
me — he will resent my coming to Cuthbert — Cuthbert — ah, 
Madonna mia — but I shall never be able to pronounce that 
terrible name ! ” 

“ Cuthbertsheugh ! — never mind, it will come with! practice ! 
No — you need not be afraid that Jim will dislike you, or regard 
you as an intruder. He knew my story — our story, and he has 
always wished that circumstances would change so as to enable 
us to be married. Of course,” he continued hastily, “ our 
marriage may alter his position — but he knows that I should 
arrange matters so that at my death he would still succeed to a 
portion of my property, even though he were to be what we call 
‘cut out’ of inheriting Cuthbertsheugh. No doubt before long 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


225 


he will find a wife of his own. But until that time comes, Laura, 
I want you to make him feel that our home is his — to look upon 
him as you might look on a brother-in-law you happened to be 
fond of. After all, you two are much of the same age. It I 
didn’t know Jim as I do, I am not sure whether I should not be 
afraid of throwing you together. He is extraordinarily good- 
looking, and delightful company — just a natural unsophisticated 
boy in many ways, but with plenty of deep feeling underlying all 
his carelessness.” 

“ You say that you know him well enough to trust him ! with 
me ! ” said Sonia, laughing, “ but you say nothing about an equal 
trust in me. But of course, Anthony, ’’ she continued more 
seriously, “ I shall do my best to make your nephew feel just as 
much at home as though I had never appeared on the scene. I 
should be miserable if I thought I had in any way come between 
you and him. You will see that it will not be my fault if we are 
not the best of friends. As to your sister, well — she will soon 
find out that I am not at all likely to bring Jesuits, or any other 
priests, into the house. I confess that I am terrified at the pros- 
pect of being presented to all your friends. I have read of your 
English country life — and of how the women ride and shoot — and 
eat. I can ride a little, but I should hate to shoot ; and I 
cannot eat meat five times a day.” 

“ Exaggerations ! ” laughed Anthony, “ with a substratum of 
truth in them. You can ride as much as you like — but you 
certainly shall not shoot. And nobody will oblige you to over- 
eat yourself — which I must admit is what the majority of my 
compatriots do. I must write again to Jim,” he added, “and 
tell him that we have settled everything. I sent him a line the 
day after I got here, just to say that I had succeeded in finding 
you, but he will be expecting another letter from me. I shall 
tell him that you wish him to make Cuthbertsheugh his home 
until he has a wife of his own to look after him.” 

“ Tell him that,” said Sonia, “ and tell him, too, that I hope 
he will forgive me for marrying you ! ” 

“ I will. But when are you going to marry me ? ” 

“ When ? oh, in course of time 1 ” 

15 


226 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


“ Yes : in the course of a few days. I refuse to wait longer. 
Then we will go direct to Cuthbertsheugh. Paris will be odious 
now — so will London. Our fresh Northumbrian air will do you 
good after having been shut up in Rome. There is no reason for 
delay, and every reason for the reverse. Our marriage will be a 
nine days’ wonder, and then people will become accustomed to 
the idea and cease to think about it. Nobody will expect you to 
pretend to be in mourning ” 

“ If they do,” remarked Sonia coldly, “ they must expect 1 I 
am not in mourning, since nobody is dead whose life was in any 
way of interest to me. But you are making me act too suddenly, 
Anthony ; there are arrangements to make, business which must 
be settled. Let us put it off until — well, at any rate until next 
month.” 

“ Not longer than next week,” returned Anthony decidedly. 
“ Sangiorgi will see that all the arrangements are made legally 
and in order ; and as to your other business, that can well be left 
in his hands. Your presence in Rome is not the least necessary 
to its settlement. You have agreed to marry me according to 
the rite of your Church ; and to delay the civil ceremony required 
by the Italian law until it can legally be performed.” 

“ But you, Anthony, you do not belong to my Church ! Do 
you not remember that this was one of the reasons they ” 

“ I remember perfectly well,” interrupted Anthony. “ I 
would just as soon be married in your Church as in any other. 
It is a matter of absolute indifference to me what form of words is 
read over my head. Moreover, Laura, as we are discussing this 
very tiresome subject, please remember that if — if we should 
have any children, you are at liberty to have them brought up 
as Catholics, or in any other form of religious belief you may 
think best for them. When they are older, if they think at all 
about such things, they will probably settle their beliefs for 
themselves. In England your priests have now the effrontery to 
ask for a pledge that all children born of a “ mixed ” marriage 
should be brought up as Roman Catholics. It is a purely 
modern innovation. I will give no pledge to any priest. It is a 
matter between yourself and me, and I refuse to admit the right 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


227 

of any ecclesiastic to interfere. You can believe my word, can 
you not ? ” 

“Of course!” replied Sonia. “As a matter of fact,” she 
added, “ it is a rule which cannot be enforced.” 

“ I know. A friend of mine — one of our Catholic peers — 
when he married a Protestant, declared that he would see 
Cardinal Manning — well, further off, before he gave any such 
pledge as to eventual children. The subject, as you say, was 
quietly dropped when it was found that he knew perfectly well 
that no ecclesiastical pains and penalties could be brought to 
bear upon him from headquarters at Rome, and that he would 
not have cared if they had been hurled at him ! ” 

“We need not discuss it,” observed Sonia di San Vico. 
“ Believe me, Anthony, there shall be no interference of that 
nature a second time between us. I am not likely to forget my 
past lesson.” 

“ That is enough, then,” he replied. “ I thought it right to 
mention the subject to you — and now let us talk of more in- 
teresting things ! Why not next week, Laura — our marriage, I 
mean ? Sangiorgi and I have found a priest who is willing to 
perform the religious ceremony on receiving our pledge that the 
civil form shall be duly ratified so soon as the ten months’ 
interval expires. I have made all arrangements, too, at the 
British consulate for rendering the marriage legally valid in 
England.” 

She let her hand rest in his. “ It must be as you decide, 
Anthony,” she answered, after a pause. “ Ah ! ” she exclaimed 
suddenly, “it is good to be cared for — to know that one may 
accept love without damage to the giver of it ! ” 


CHAPTER XIX 



HAT night Anthony wrote a long letter to his nephew. 


JL Its contents, however, were concerned rather with Jim 
himself than with his own affairs. He briefly explained the 
gravity of the financial circumstances in which he had found 
prince del Monte’s widow, and frankly confessed that on meeting 
her again, knowing her to be a free woman, he had realised how 
very far from being dead his old love for her was, and that this, 
coupled with the evident fact that unless he married her he 
could not have the additional happiness of extricating her from 
the difficulties in which del Monte’s frauds had plunged her, 
had decided him to beg her to consent that the marriage should 
take place in Rome without any delay. 

“ This news,” he added, “ will scarcely surprise you after my 
last letter, from which you must have guessed how things were 
likely to end with me. You may, nevertheless, be surprised that 
Laura — she insists upon being called by another name which I 
can never bring myself to associate with her, and which by degrees 
I mean to make her forget ! — should marry me within so very 
short a time of del Monte’s death. No doubt people will be 
scandalised, and say that it is a monstrous piece of heartlessness, 
but they will be people who do not know her reasons for doing 
so. When we meet I will explain everything to you, but I do 
not care to write all the details. I hope to arrange for the 
marriage to take place here next week, and of course, being in the 
eyes of the law a widow, Laura will have to be married under 
the hateful name of princess del Monte, so all the world will 
probably at once begin to declaim against the indecent haste of 
the thing. Naturally, once my wife, she will drop her titles and 
be plain Mrs. Cuthbert, at all events in England. We shall 
come to Cuthbertsheugh at once after the marriage, and Laura 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


229 


begs me to tell you that she hopes you will forgive her for having 
married me ; that you will not look upon her as an intruder, and 
that you will always continue to make Cuthbertsheugh your home 
until you have one of your own and a wife to manage it ! You 
two will become great allies, you will see ! and you will have to 
be careful not to turn an uncle into a jealous husband. I do not 
think you will call her ‘ Aunt Laura,’ and you will probably think 
me a fool for marrying a woman nearly young enough to be 
my daughter ! However, you know all about that, so I will not 
make any excuses for my conduct.” 

The remainder of Anthony’s letter was almost entirely con- 
fined to business matters, and details concerning Jim’s future. 
He reminded him of the conversation they had had together 
before his departure for Rome, and told him that as he, Anthony, 
would naturally have to make a fresh will consequent upon his 
marriage, Jim would find that according to the terms of this new 
document he would still inherit Cuthbertsheugh in the event ot 
Anthony having no son, but that if, on the contrary, a son were 
born to him, Jim in that case would succeed to a considerable 
portion of the Yorkshire property. From beginning to end the 
letter was both frank and affectionate. 

“It is no use,” Anthony concluded, “writing you details 
concerning Laura which I prefer to tell you when we meet. In 
the meantime, you had better break the news of our marriage to 
the neighbours at Cuthbertsheugh as tactfully as you can. The 
less you say about del Monte and her former marriage the better. 
It is no use raking up the past, and if little is said people will 
soon forget that there was ever any scandal concerning him, or 
gossip concerning Laura’s attitude towards him. I am writing to 
Jane. Imagine the first effects on her of such a bomb-shell! 
By the time we arrive at Cuthbertsheugh, I hope that the excite- 
ment among the neighbours will have diminished. Laura 
declares that she is terrified at the prospect of facing the county, 
and, indeed, it is a prospect which somewhat alarms me! I 
wish we could steal into Cuthbertsheugh like burglars in the 
dead of night without any one knowing that we were there ! ” 

Anthony read over his composition several times before 


230 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


finally consigning it to the post. “ At any rate,” he said to him- 
self, “ the boy will not be able to think himself cut out of every- 
thing, and he will know that both Laura and I intend that 
Cuthbertsheugh shall always be his home.” 

The next few days were entirely occupied by interviews with 
the avvocato Sangiorgi, and arranging with him as to the various 
methods which, as Anthony laughingly told her, were to guarantee 
to society generally that she was an honest woman. This, and 
the legal formalities connected with the resettlement of his fiancee’s 
affairs, as well as the framing of instructions for his own lawyers 
in London, kept Anthony busy until the evening hours, when he 
and Sonia took long drives out in the Campagna, returning to the 
city at nightfall for a late dinner. 

On the third day after the despatch of his letter to Jim a 
telegram was put into his hand just as he was returning to his 
hotel after a couple of hours spent with the avvocato Sangiorgi 
in the Via del Tritone. 

“ Heartiest congratulations to you both ! ” it ran. “ No sur- 
prise to me. What did I tell you last year ? Writing. Jim.” 

Anthony showed the message to Sonia that afternoon. “ What 
did he tell you last year ? ” she asked, smiling. 

“ That he would not consent to my making him my heir unless 
I promised that, should circumstances arise making it possible 
for me to marry you, I was not to consider myself in any way 
bound by the fact that I had, so to speak, adopted him as my 
successor at Cuthbertsheugh. I agreed to his conditions. Not 
many young men, Laura, would have been so ready to make them.” 

“ No, indeed ! I do not wonder that you are fond of him, 
Anthony. I should say he deserves your affection,” she replied. 
“ I am longing to meet ‘ Jim.’ I feel that he will help me 
through the ordeal of meeting so many strangers. You see that 
I already do not include him among them ! ” 

“ That is just what I want you to feel about him,” returned 
Anthony Cuthbert, delighted at her remark. 

Three days after this Jim’s letter arrived. It was exactly the 
kind of letter which Anthony had expected to receive from him. 
His congratulations, both cordial and affectionate, were written in 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


231 


a simple, half- bantering language which of itself vouched for their 
perfect sincerity. It was a letter such as one brother might have 
written under similar circumstances to another ; or rather, per- 
haps, one close and intimate friend to another, since brotherly 
intimacy is apt to exist as a respectable tradition rather than a 
reality. Anthony was pleased to see that Jim evidently wrote in 
good spirits, and that he appeared to have found plenty to occupy 
him at Cuthbertsheugh, notwithstanding that he was alone there. 
At the end of his letter, however, he informed Anthony that he 
was about to go to Scotland for two or three weeks. A brother- 
officer had invited him to stay with him, and had promised him 
fishing, and also a few days’ grouse-shooting if he could remain 
after the twelfth of August. He had accepted, he wrote, knowing 
that Anthony would not begin shooting on the Cuthbertsheugh 
moors until the third week in August, and that he would there- 
fore get a few days with the grouse over dogs in Scotland before 
shooting driven birds on the Northumbrian moors. 

The letter contained several scathing remarks on the defunct 
prince del Monte, and consequently Anthony did not give it to 
Sonia, but merely told her its general import. “ This Scottish 
plan of Jim’s is rather sudden,” he observed. “ I strongly sus- 
pect that he has arranged it on purpose to be absent from Cuth- 
bertsheugh when we arrive there. No doubt he thinks we should 
be better alone for a time, and I dare say he is right. He must 
return by the twentieth of August, however, when I begin grouse- 
driving; otherwise, I believe my keeper would give me warn- 
ing immediately, and there would be a revolution in the whole 
establishment.” Sonia di San Vico looked at him with a smile. 
“ I understand nothing of what you are saying,” she said. “ I 
thought one drove horses, not birds ! What sort of country is 
this to which you are taking me, Anthony ? ” 

Anthony laughed gaily. “ Yot will see, carissima ! You will 
learn to love our Border country, though it is so different from 
your own. I shall teach you all our history and our traditions. 
And you will learn to like the inhabitants, too, when you get to 
know them. I shall drive you about everywhere — with horses, 
not with grouse — and show you all our lions.” 


232 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


“ Also lions ? God ! Anthony, what a — a horrible place ! 
What do you mean by lions ? I know that there are none in 
Europe.” 

Anthony explained. “ But, Laura ” 

“ Sonia ! ” 

“ Sonia, then. You really must not allude to God when you 
are talking to English people — not, at all events, in that way. It 
is not considered commt il faut , especially for a lady ! You will 
shock my country neighbours dreadfully if you do. You may 
says ‘ good heavens,’ if you like, in moments of unusual agitation.” 

Sonia sighed. “ It is all extremely perplexing,” she replied. 
“ I thought I knew English, but it appears that I do not know it 
at all. May I say ‘ damn ’ ? ” 

“ Certainly not,” exclaimed Anthony hastily, “ only to me 
and, perhaps, to Jim.” 

“ People say it in books.” 

“ They say many things in books which they would never 
think of saying in real life. Besides, even in books ladies do not 
say ‘ damn,’ at least not often.” 

“ It is a pity,” observed Sonia thoughtfully. 

“A pity? Why?” 

“ It is such an easy expression to remember.” 

“ If you said it to my sister Jane she would have a fit,” 
Anthony returned, laughing. “ And there are other things you 
will have to recollect, Sonia — things which you in Italy talk openly 
about, but with us are not discussed in public.” 

“ For instance ? ” 

“ For instance, babies — before they officially become so. If 
somebody you knew were going to have a baby, instead of saying 
so, you would have to purse up your lips in a peculiar manner, 
assume a modest expression of countenance, and remark that your 
friend was not very strong.” 

“ And if I were going to have a baby ? ” 

Anthony was somewhat taken aback. “Oh, well, in that 
case — really, Sonia, you do ask the most embarrassing ques- 
tions ! — I think you would say that you were feeling a little run 
down. I don’t quite know what you would say, but certainly 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


233 

you would not tell the man who took you in to dinner that you 
were going to have a baby.” 

“ It is a very usual occurrence — I mean, with women gener- 
ally,” observed Sonia. 

“ Exactly ! But it is precisely the very usual occurrences in 
life which English people consider it to be indelicate to mention 
in conversation. That is why you Latin races regard us as 
hypocrites — with considerable reason.” 

“ I shall try to remember,” Sonia answered docilely. “ Let 
us hope that nobody at Cuth-berts-’oof will have a baby — then 
I shall not say wrong things. Do you know, Anthony, that I 
think it very tactful of your nephew to go to Scotland now. It 
will be far nicer to be alone with you for a few days when we get 
to Cuth-berts-’oof. But you will make him return, will you not ? 
He must always feel at liberty to come and go as he likes.” 

“ Of course ! He will return for the twentieth of August, 
when we begin the grouse-shooting on my moors — and then I 
hope he will be able to stay for some time.” 

Early in the next week, Anthony Cuthbert and Laura Sonia 
Vittoria, Principessa vedova del Mont z-nata Conti dei duchi 
di Carmagnano — as the official record ran — were ecclesiastically 
made man and wife, the English civil formalities being executed 
in the presence of the British Consul. A priest of a church 
in the vicinity of Sonia’s hotel performed the brief ecclesiastical 
rite, before a congregation consisting of several old women, a 
beggar professing blindness, the avvocato Sangiorgi, and the 
respective witnesses for the bride and bridegroom — one of whom 
was the sacristan, who had partially cleaned himself for the 
occasion. There was certainly very little of a princely or ducal 
nature about the wedding, though the priest was agreeably 
astonished at the generosity of the gift which Anthony Cuthbert 
made him for the poor of his parish at the conclusion of the 
ceremony, and the sacristan was a richer man by a hundred 
francs after he had signed his name as a witness in the registry. 
That same afternoon Anthony and his wife left Rome, speeded 
at the railway station by the avvocato Sangiorgi, who was beam- 
ing with delight and satisfaction. They broke their journey 


234 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


that night at Pisa, and after spending twenty-four hours in that 
sleepy city travelled through to Paris. 

On the fifth evening after their marriage Anthony Cuthbert 
helped his wife to alight from the railway carriage at the little 
station nearest to Cuthbertsheugh. Both at Newcastle, where 
the express from London to the North had halted for ten 
minutes, and at Alnmouth and Alnwick where they had had 
to change trains, Anthony to his dismay found acquaintances 
and friends who crowded round the compartment which had 
been reserved for him at King’s Cross to offer their congratula- 
tions to the newly-married couple, and satisfy their curiosity 
concerning the Italian princess whom he was bringing home to 
Cuthbertsheugh. Sonia bore the ordeal with laudable serenity. 
She said a few simple words of thanks to those who were intro- 
duced to her, though she every now and again glanced nervously 
at Anthony for an assuring glance in return to tell her that 
she was conducting herself to his satisfaction. Both of them 
congratulated themselves, on arriving at their journey’s end, to 
find that at the little station there were no demonstrations of 
welcome save those offered by the stationmaster and shyly 
re-echoed by his staff, consisting of a youthful porter. Their 
relief, however, was destined to be short-lived. The open 
carriage drawn by a pair of fast-trotting horses which bore them 
rapidly away from the station had hardly proceeded a mile when, 
at a point of the road at which the Cuthbertsheugh property 
commenced, they found their progress impeded by a crowd 
which cheered lustily at their approach. Every man, woman, 
and child on the estate had turned out to welcome them. At a 
signal evidently prearranged with the coachman, the horses were 
rapidly unharnessed and a band of stalwart “hinds” took their 
place, drawing the carriage with vociferous cheers along the road 
until the park gates of Cuthbertsheugh were reached, while on 
either side rode an escort of farmers and other tenants. At the 
gates was another crowd, composed for the most part of more 
elderly folk and of school-children, of which one last approached 
the carriage and shyly offered a bouquet of roses and carnations to 
Sonia, who bent down and kissed the girl as she took it. Finally 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


235 


the carriage and its escort drew up at the front door of the 
' house ; and Anthony, standing on the steps with Sonia beside 
him, thanked the surrounding crowd in a somewhat unsteady 
voice. Then, descending among them, he introduced the prin- 
cipal tenants to Sonia, rapidly whispering to her to shake hands 
with everybody. “ Eh, but, Mistor-r-r Cuthbor-rt, what are we 
to call the lady ? ” suddenly demanded an old man whose boast 
it was that his family had been on the Cuthbertsheugh estate for 
three centuries. 

There was a general silence. It was evident that Anthony’s 
reply was looked for with no little eagerness. 

Anthony laughed. “ Why, Mrs. Cuthbert, of course ! ” he 
answered. A suppressed murmur followed his words, and the 
old gentleman’s face showed some disappointment. 

“ Oh, aye,” he returned stolidly ; “ but the papor-r-s say she 
is a princess.” 

“ Well, Geordie, so she is, in her own country. But here in 
Northumberland she is Mrs. Cuthbert. The name’s quite good 
enough for me! so I hope it is for you, too.” A general laugh 
greeted his remark, followed by loud cheers for Mrs. Cuthbor-rt. 

“We shall never forget your welcome, my wife and I,” 
Anthony said to them. “ She is from another country, as you 
know ; but you have welcomed her to-day as one of ourselves — 
a hearty, north-country welcome. But she will thank you for 
herself— not in her own language, but in yours ! ” 

Sonia understood at once what was expected of her. “ Yes,’’ 
she said in a clear voice, “ I do indeed thank you all a thousand 
times ! My husband is right. You have made me forget already 
that I am a foreigner.” 

Another outburst of cheers followed her words. Anthony 
Cuthbert turned to his agent, who was standing by him. “ When 
we arrived at the station,” he said with a smile, “we thought 
that we were going to be allowed to creep into Cuthbertsheugh 
unobserved ! ” 

The agent laughed. “ It was a little plan of Mr. James’s,” 
he replied. “The tenants wanted to meet you at the station, 
but Mr. James suggested meeting the carriage on the march 


236 ANTHONY CUTHBERT 

of the property and dragging you up to the house. It was meant 
as a surprise.” 

“ And it was ! ” returned Anthony. 

“Mr. James?” asked Sonia suddenly. “Have I shaken 
hands with him, Anthony? If not, point him out to me, and 
I will thank him.” 

Anthony and the agent both stared at her. Then Anthony 
laughed. “ Ah, I understand ! ” he exclaimed. “ Of course you 
only know of my nephew as Jim. Jim is an abbreviation of 
James ; did you not know that?” 

Sonia, whose face had until that moment been flushed with 
excitement and pleasure at the unexpected warmth of the welcome 
accorded her, suddenly grew pale. 

“No,” she replied, “I did not know it. I thought Jim was 
his real name.” 

Anthony looked at her anxiously. “You are tired,” he said ; 
“and no wonder, after so long a journey and this reception at 
the end of it ! Mr. Armstrong,” he continued to the agent, “ do 
you not think that we might slip away now ? My wife is tired, 
and it is getting late. Please explain to them, and tell them 
that of course I shall bring Mrs. Cuthbert to call upon them all 
at their own homes. And will you see that the men who dragged 
the carriage are given a good supper and enough beer, but not 
too much whisky ? ” 

Anthony led his wife into the house, and, after making her 
acquainted with his household, delivered her over to the charge 
of the housekeeper who would attend upon her till her maid and 
the luggage should have arrived from the station. He saw that 
she was still looking white, and feared lest she were really over- 
done. “ I will come to you presently,” he said; “and now Mrs. 
Mitchell will take you to your own rooms and get you anything 
you want. It is past eight o’clock, so we shall have to dine 
late ; for you would like to rest a little before dinner, would 
you not ? ” 

“Yes,” replied Sonia; “I am tired, and rather faint. It is 
nothing, Anthony — nothing at all ! Yes, I will go to my room, 
I think. I shall be quite well again after I have rested.” 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


237 


Anthony accompanied her and the housekeeper up the old 
oak staircase. He fancied that the portraits of dead and gone 
Cuthberts looked approvingly down on the new mistress ol 
Cuthbertsheugh as she passed beneath them. Sonia, however, 
hardly glanced at the picturesque and comfortable surroundings 
of her new home. She was silent and preoccupied ; and Anthony, 
convinced that she needed rest and quiet, and feeling that the 
presence of another woman would be far more profitable than 
his own, left her with the housekeeper in the luxurious apartment 
which had been prepared for her as the result of long and costly 
telegrams he had despatched from Rome. 

In a little more than an hour, duly refreshed after a bath 
and a change into evening clothes, he returned to Sonia’s room, 
and was relieved to find that she had apparently recovered from 
what she declared had been only a sudden feeling of fatigue 
following the ordeal of having had to respond in a suitable 
manner to the kindly welcome given her. She, too, had ex- 
changed the light cloth travelling-dress she had put on that 
morning in London for a white tea-gown adorned with some 
old cream-coloured lace, in which Anthony thought she looked 
more beautiful than ever. He took her downstairs to the 
library, a long room opening into the dining-room, the win- 
dows of which looked over the terraced gardens, and on to 
the distant range of the Cheviots. The glow of sunset was 
still lingering over the hills, and through the windows came 
the scent of roses yet in full bloom in the late Northern summer, 
of musk and mignonette, of the sweet night-flowering stock, of 
tall tiger-lilies, and of half a hundred other flowers which make 
an English garden in the dusk of a summer evening unrivalled 
by any. 

Sonia gave an exclamation of delight as Anthony pointed out 
the scene to her. “It is beautiful! she said, “quite beautiful, 
Anthony. It is very different from our Tuscan landscapes, of 
course, and your garden is very different from that at San Vico, 
though San Vico, too, is lovely in its way.” 

“ Our garden, you mean,” corrected Anthony tenderly. 
“To-morrow,” he continued, “I will show you everything, in 


238 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


doors and out, belonging to the place. You have seen nothing 
of the house yet ; it is a straggling old building, and far larger 
than is at all necessary in these days. To-night, however, you 
must rest, and go to bed soon after dinner.” 

As he spoke, the doors of the dining-room were thrown 
open, and the butler announced that dinner was ready. Anthony 
gave his arm to his wife and led her into the room. There 
would be time enough, he thought, to tell her that, when they 
were alone, or only a very small party, such a formality could 
be dispensed with in her new country. She would soon become 
accustomed to the differences existing between English and Italian 
manners — differences which, he felt obliged often to confess 
to himself, placed the former at a decided disadvantage in the 
matter of courtliness and good breeding. He was delighted 
with the ready tact and understanding which his wife had dis- 
played in her acknowledgment of the tenants’ welcome. That 
the first impression his people at Cuthbertsheugh had received 
of her was a most favourable one, he had quickly seen for 
himself. He knew their peculiarities, as he knew their sterling 
good qualities ; their tardiness in receiving a stranger into their 
confidence, and their loyalty when once their confidence was 
fairly won. He had scarcely expected so warm and spontaneous 
a welcome to his foreign bride ; and though he had said but 
little, he had been not only pleased but greatly touched by it. 
He had overheard many of the comments made on his wife, 
and, knowing how absolutely alien to the Northumbrian nature 
is any form of flattery, had been particularly gratified by them. 
After all, he told himself, it was natural that Laura should have 
at once risen to the occasion and assumed her new position 
simply, but at the same time with becoming dignity. She was 
a high-bred lady by birth and descent, and, therefore, able to 
adapt herself to any position likely to come in her way. He 
did not doubt that she would make as good an impression on 
other classes of the community in the county as she had made 
that evening on her humbler neighbours. 

The dining-room at Cuthbertsheugh was altogether too large 
an apartment for two people not to feel somewhat lost in it. It 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


239 


was not a lofty room, however, and its walls, hung with family 
portraits above the wainscotting of dark, oaken panelling, gave it 
a comfortable aspect enough ; though it was more cheerful in 
winter-time, when the great logs of wood were blazing in the 
spacious fireplace, and the wax candles in the sconces cast a 
mellow light on the oak, than at other seasons of the year. 
Many a hunt breakfast had it seen, and many an uproarious 
dinner in those times not so very remote in that part of the world, 
when, after the ladies had retired, the doors would be locked and 
no guests suffered to leave the room until a certain number of 
bottles of port had been consumed by the company. 

The dinner that night was not uproarious. Sonia, indeed, 
seemed to have recovered her spirits, and was full of interest and 
delight at what she had already seen of her English home. She 
ate and drank little, but this Anthony attributed to her being still 
overtired by her journey. 

“ We will go and sit in my study,” he said to her, as the 
servants, having served them with coffee and cigarettes, and 
having succeeded passably well in concealing their feelings when 
Mrs. Cuthbert began to smoke, finally left them alone. “You 
can sit and smoke your cigarettes,” he continued, “ while I look 
through the mass of correspondence which I know too well will 
be lying on my table waiting to be answered. I had nothing 
forwarded to Rome on purpose not to be bothered, and now I 
shall have to pay for my idleness.” 

He led the way to his room, which was situated in another 
wing of the house, and installed Sonia comfortably in an arm- 
chair by the wood fire he had ordered to be lighted lest she 
should feel chilly in the northern climate to which she had yet to 
become accustomed. 

“ Do not think about me,” she said to him, smiling, “ I am 
very comfortable here, and the fire is cheerful. I shall read a 
book while you attend to your letters. I shall take your advice 
and go to bed early, for I am really tired.” 

Anthony kissed her. “Yes,” he said, “go to bed early. 
You have a great deal before you to-morrow, and a good night’s 
rest is what you need. You shall be left in peace ! ” he added. 


240 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


Then lighting a cigar he went to his writing-table which, as he 
had expected, was piled with letters and circulars accumulated 
during his absence. 

For some time the silence in the room was only broken by 
the rending of envelopes and wrappers, and the tearing up of 
paper, as Anthony proceeded to deal with the correspondence 
beside him by throwing a considerable portion of it into a capa- 
cious waste-paper basket at his feet, glancing through the contents 
of his more private letters, and placing some aside for further 
consideration, while others were consigned to the fate meted out 
to the circulars and advertisements. At length, however, the 
monotonous rustling and crackling of paper was abruptly varied 
by the ejaculation of the single word “ Damn!” which proceeded 
from Anthony’s lips with unmistakable fervour. 

Sonia looked up at him. She had allowed a book she had 
taken up to lie unheeded in her lap while she gazed abstractedly 
into the red caverns among the burning logs. “ I thought no- 
body said that ! ” she observed, smiling. 

“ I say it,” replied Anthony, “ and with good reason ! I 
have just found a letter from my Yorkshire agent. He wishes 
me to go over there to look at some works which are being 
carried out, and I fear I shall have to go, for the matter under 
discussion is of importance. The worst of it is that it will mean 
a two days’ absence from you ! I cannot manage to get there 
and back in the day, and visit the places the agent wishes me 
to see. I should have to sleep certainly one night there, and 
do my business the following day, though with luck I might 
manage to get through it in time to be back here late in the 
evening ; I could always drive from Alnwick or Belford, if I were 
too late to catch the last train on our local line from Alnwick. 
It is a most infernal nuisance, but I don’t see how I can avoid 
going. What in the world will you do with yourself, Lau — 
Sonia — left alone for two whole days in a strange place ? ” 

“I shall have plenty to do,” Sonia replied, “and you must 
certainly go, if the business is important. I shall occupy my 
time by exploring, and I know that everybody will be very kind 
to me.” 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


241 


“ Kind ! ” repeated Anthony, smiling ; “ yes, I do not think 
you need fear on that score. Well, I must see about it; and 
to-morrow I will telegraph to the agent and tell him that I will 
settle a day to come over to him as soon as I can. Towards 
the end of the week would do ; for by that time you would have 
begun to feel a little more at home. By the way, to-morrow my 
sister is coming over to luncheon from Alnwick, in order to 
make your acquaintance. I wonder what you will think of her, 
and what she will think of you ! It will be as good as a scene 
in a comedy to see you trying to understand each other.” 

“Is she really so alarming, Anthony?” asked Sonia. 

“ She can be most alarming, when she chooses,” he replied, 
laughing ; “ but I am sure she will try to make herself pleasant 
to you; so, however surprised you may feel at her appearance 
and her manner, you must conceal it. Of course, I have written 
to her, and explained everything concerning you. Indeed, I told 
her our whole story, and how I should have married you years 
ago. Her reply to my letter was characteristic.” 

“ What did she say ? ” asked Sonia. 

“ She wrote that the news of my marriage to a lady — even 
though that lady were unfortunately a foreigner and a papist — 
had greatly relieved her mind, and would relieve the minds of 
many other people when the fact was known to them. She 
had always feared, she said, to hear of my marriage to some 
unfortunate person who was not a lady, but to whom I owed 
the tardy reparation of marriage. She added that she would 
endeavour to forget — or, rather, to resign herself to the fact of 

having a sister-in-law who was a Romanist ” 

“What in the world is a Romanist?” interrupted Sonia, 
laughing. 

“She means a Roman Catholic,” replied Anthony — “an 
adherent to what people holding her opinions often describe, with 
a magnificent contempt for history in general, and the history of 
England in particular, as ‘ the Roman Schism ! ’ ” 

“ Yes ? ” observed Sonia indifferently. “ Well, Anthony ? ” 

“ Well, she went on to say that doubtless after a short time 
spent in a country possessing the priceless blessing of a pure 
16 


242 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


faith purged from the shocking errors of Rome, more light 
would be vouchsafed to you, but it grieved her to think that 
this light would not come to you through your husband’s 
example. One for me — that ! ” 

“ Oh, la, la,” remarked Sonia, “ but she is an original, your 
sister ! Are there many women like her in this country ? ” 

“ Plenty ! belonging to all creeds — yours included.” 

“ I do not think I have a creed — now.” 

“Well, your official creed. What would you have? Un- 
married people of either sex must have a safety-valve; and 
religion makes the best safety-valve for the harmless dispersion 
of the unsatisfied energies of vidlcs filles. It obviates all manner 
of complications. With you, they go into convents ; with us, they 
worry their friends and relations. Yours is the better system of the 
two for the satisfactory bestowal of the sexually unemployed.” 

Anthony returned to his correspondence, and silence once 
more reigned in the room. The butler and a footman entered, 
and deposited upon one of the tables a tray with lemons, soda 
water, and a quaint decanter of old Venetian glass containing 
a particular kind of syrup of pomegranate which Anthony always 
imported for his own special consumption from Caflisch’s estab- 
lishment in Naples, as he rarely touched spirits of any kind, and 
never by any chance drank them at night. 

Presently Sonia, unable to concentrate her attention on her 
book, and a prey to sudden restlessness, rose from her chair 
and quietly proceeded to make a tour of inspection about her 
husband’s study. She paused opposite the marble statue of 
the Meleager which stood at the end of the room, the rose- 
shaded light of the lamps falling upon it and turning its white- 
ness to flesh colour. She had observed its presence on her 
first entrance, but had not till then approached it. Uncon- 
sciously she must have made a slight exclamation of surprise; 
for Anthony, who had not noticed her movements, suddenly 
turned round in his chair and saw her standing in front of the 
statue looking at it fixedly. 

“ It is a fine copy,” he observed, “ is it not ? I dare say you 
know the original. I am proud of that statue, for it is un- 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


243 


doubtedly a genuine replica, contemporary with the piece in 
the Vatican. I found it in Sicily years ago, and had the devil’s 
own difficulty in getting it out of the country. Do you know, 
Laura, that the Meleager bears a most extraordinary likeness 
to Jim ? It puzzled me for a long time as to where I could have 
seen somebody whose features so nearly resembled Jim’s, and 
one evening, quite by chance, I was looking at that statue and 
the mystery was solved. Really, he might have sat as the model 
for it — always excepting the nose, which is a little too straight 
and wanting in character.” 

“Your nephew — Jim,” said Sonia in a low, strained voice — 
“ he is like that ? ” 

“ Almost ludicrously like it,” responded Anthony, turning 
again to his table. “You will recognise the resemblance at 
once when you have met Jim. I have always wondered how 
it never struck me long before it did. But, you see, I had 
not seen Jim for years until he returned from India last autumn. 
I wonder why these infernal money-lenders have the impudence 
to send one their circulars,” he added, contemptuously flinging 
a letter he had opened into the waste - paper basket. “ Yes, 
Jim was with his regiment in India for five years. He went 
there immediately after he joined it ; and no sooner had he come 
home than he was ordered off to do garrison duty at Malta. He 
only got back from Malta early in June. By the way, Laura — 
Sonia, I mean — how in the world had you never realised that 
Jim was merely an abbreviation of James? Of course, all the 
people here call him Mr. James — or rather, in our local pro- 
nunciation, ‘ Mistor-r-r James.’ ” 

Sonia did not reply to his question. “ But his name,” she 
asked, almost in a whisper — “ his surname ? that, of course, is 
the same as yours— Cuthbert, naturally, is it not ? ” 

Anthony opened another letter and glanced at its contents. 
“ Cuthbert ? ” he replied absently, “ no, of course not ! I sup- 
pose I never had occasion to mention his surname to you, and 
concluded that you knew it. And yet, I think I remember 
telling you that he was the son of a sister of mine. She married 
a parson — I mean one of our English Church clergymen— they 


244 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


marry, you know, and breed children other people have to 
support. His name was Sinclair, a man of very good family, 
and all that, a brother of Lord Teesdale, but quite an impossible 
individual in all other ways. Thank God, Jim does not take 
after his father ! No, Jim’s name is, of course, Sinclair. It is 
odd that I should never have mentioned it to you, but to tell you 
the truth, I like to forget the fact when I can. I wish his name 
were Cuthbert — and some day, perhaps, it will be ; as I am in- 
clined to make that a condition to his eventually inheriting what 
I intend to leave him.” 

“ And he was at Malta — in May ? ” 

“ Yes. Wait, now I come to think of it, he had a week or 
two’s leave in May, and the boy actually took it into his head to 
rush off as far as Florence ! Who knows that you may not have 
seen him there without dreaming that he would so soon be 
related to you ! ” and Anthony laughed. He scribbled some 
memoranda on a sheet of notepaper as he spoke, and did not 
notice that his wife made no further observation. Suddenly a 
sound of something falling caused him to turn round hastily, to 
see her lying unconscious beneath the Meleager. 

“ Laura ! ” he exclaimed. “ Good God ! Laura, what is the 
matter ? ” and he hastened to her and raised her from the ground, 
placing her on a sofa. “ She has fainted,” he said to himself. 
“ I ought to have insisted on her remaining in her own room 
to-night ” — and he hurriedly poured out some water standing on 
the tray the servants had left and sprinkled it on her face. In 
a tew moments she opened her eyes and looked about her 
dazedly. 

“ It is nothing ! ” she said, “ nothing, Anthony ! That faint- 
ness which I felt before dinner came on me again, and — and I 
suppose I did faint. Let me go to my room, I am tired — tired.” 

Anthony Cuthbert rang the bell. “Of course,” he replied 
soothingly “You are regularly worn out! I have rung for 
them to tell your maid to go to your room at once, and I will 
take you there now. You must have some cognac — they will 
bring it directly — and then we will go upstairs, and I shall leave 
you. Your maid and Mrs. Mitchell will look after you.” 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


245 


He hastily despatched the footman who answered the bell for 
some brandy, at the same time bidding him to tell Mrs. Cuthbert’s 
maid that she would be wanted at once, and that the housekeeper 
was to accompany her, as Mrs. Cuthbert had suddenly fainted 
from over-fatigue. As soon as the brandy arrived he insisted on 
Sonia drinking a little of it, and then led her upstairs. 

“ Do not be afraid,” he whispered to her before consigning 
her to the care of her maid and the housekeeper, who, at that 
moment, appeared breathless at the door of Sonia’s apartments. 
“ I shall not disturb you again to-night. You must sleep well, 
and remain quietly in your room to-morrow until you feel quite 
rested and yourself again.” 

Sonia thanked him with a glance. “ Yes,” she said eagerly, 
“ I only want quiet, and to be alone — I must be alone.” 

“ Of course ! ” repeated Anthony soothingly, “ of course, 
dear, nobody shall disturb you, and I shall come to see how you 
are in the morning.” 

Left to the care of the women, Sonia soon dismissed them, 
telling the housekeeper that she really needed nothing but rest 
after her long journey, and suffering her maid to remain with her 
only so long as was needful to assist her in disrobing herself of 
her tea-gown and in the performance of other details which the 
said maid resolutely declined to allow her to perform for herself. 


CHAPTER XX 


HEN Sonia was at last left alone, the self-command 



vv she had exercised since recovering from her momen- 
tary fainting-fit abandoned her. She was scarcely conscious of 
any other feeling than an overwhelming desire to be alone. 
The stolid and methodical precision with which her maid had 
performed her duties, leaving no detail unattended to, had well- 
nigh driven her to distraction — and it was only fear lest the 
woman should think something mysterious had occurred between 
her and Anthony which had restrained Sonia from dispensing 
altogether with her services. 

Her rooms, consisting of a bedroom and another apartment 
which Anthony had caused to be fitted up as a sitting-room for 
her especial use, opened out of a landing at the head of the 
principal staircase, and communicated with Anthony’s own suite, 
to which, however, there was an independent entrance from a 
corridor leading to another wing of the house. Sonia’s first 
action, so soon as the maid had left her, was to lock the double 
doors communicating with the landing, and also those leading 
to her husband’s rooms. To be absolutely alone was for the 
moment her consuming desire ; and she had a dread which 
amounted to terror lest Anthony should attempt to come to 
her. She was conscious of assuring herself, by trying the bolts 
of each of the doors, that nobody could possibly enter. After 
this she was conscious of little else than that she was striving 
vainly and impotently to think consecutively, and to explain to 
herself what this great horror was which had come upon her so 
suddenly, leaving her dazed and stunned as though by a 
physical blow. Whether she were standing or sitting, even 
whether she were awake or dreaming, she could not tell ; nor 
how long a time might be passing while she remained in her 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


247 


state of semi-consciousness, since time seemed to her as though 
it could surely no longer exist. Trifles long forgotten recurred 
to her memory ; and once or twice she laughed aloud at the 
grotesqueness of the thoughts which passed like grinning fever- 
phantoms materialised in her brain. 

Gradually, and painfully, she became aware of the existence 
of her own personality. Her confused and disjointed thoughts 
settled themselves into something like the order and consecutive- 
ness which she had been hopelessly endeavouring to enforce 
upon them. She became aware that she was on her feet, 
standing upright and motionless in the centre of the room. A 
clock chimed in the sitting-room beyond, merry little silvery 
chimes ringing the four quarters ; and then its deep, soft gong 
struck twice. The sound recalled her yet more to herself. 
Two o’clock ! and it had been scarcely midnight when she had 
finally got rid of her maid ! Was it possible that she had been 
standing there for two hours ? Suddenly she moved quickly and 
noiselessly to the door leading to Anthony’s rooms, and stood 
close beside it, listening breathlessly. Surely she had heard 
something — some one moving behind it. If Anthony attempted 
to make her open it, she would throw herself from the window 
— anything ! Anthony ? why, Anthony was her husband — she 
had married him ! — and Sonia was conscious enough now to 
check herself in the act of laughing wildly. She listened again — 
listened till she felt the blood throbbing and tingling in her ears. 
No — there was silence. She must have imagined the stealthy 
movements she had heard. She turned away from the door, 
and as she did so she saw the reflection of her own figure in a 
long cheval-glass near her. She approached the looking-glass 
and gazed at the figure curiously. Could that woman with the 
white, drawn face, and the odd, strained expression in the eyes, 
be herself? What had she done — that woman — to make her 
look so? or what had been done to her? It was ridiculous. 
She, Sonia, had never looked like that : not even when she had 
by chance come upon a letter of her mother written to prince 
del Monte, which had revealed to her the full infamy that had 
been practised upon her unsuspecting girlhood. Great God! 


248 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


how the woman looked at her ! — and Sonia turned away with a 
shudder. She extinguished the electric lights in the bedroom, 
lest Anthony might see some gleam from them through the 
doors, and guess that she was still awake, and then she softly 
unlocked the door of the sitting-room, and passed into it. A 
log of wood was smouldering in the fireplace, and she sat down 
in an arm-chair beside it. There was no other light in the room, 
and Anthony would not guess that she was there. He would 
think she was asleep, and would not venture to disturb her. 
What had he said to her? she must remember it clearly, so as 
to know what she had to do. He had said that his nephew — 
the boy he had told her was as dear to him and dearer than if 
he had been a younger brother — was called James Sinclair. 
But James Sinclair was — had been 

Sonia bit her lips to check the cry that rose to them. It would 
be too horrible — too unjust and cruel, too monstrous altogether ! 
The thing could not be. There must be some confusion, some 
mistake which by degrees she would be able to unravel. And 
yet 

The brain was working more normally now, and more ruth- 
lessly. Link by link the chain of evidence unfolded itself in her 
mind. It was strange she should have felt that sudden chill of 
apprehension when she had learned that her husband’s nephew 
was named James, and not Jim, as she had thought. There was 
nothing to justify that apprehension, since James was by no means 
an uncommon English name. It had been a presentiment of 
coming evil. And then that statue ! The likeness had struck her 
immediately. And he — her husband’s nephew and now her own 
— had been at Malta in May, and had gone to Florence. No ; 
there could be no mistake, no confusion of individuals — it was all 
horribly, cruelly true ! 

Sonia sprang from her chair and paced up and down the room 
in silent agony. What could she do ? she asked herself. Good 
God ! what could she do to avert the consequences of this horror ? 
and how had such a monstrous thing become possible? If 
Anthony had only told her his nephew’s full name at first every- 
thing would have been different. She would have refused to 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


249 


marry him — would have starved rather than marry him — and he 
would have gone away out of her life for ever, as she had believed 
Jim Sinclair had gone. As the power of consecutive thought re- 
turned to her ever stronger and more remorselessly, Sonia was able 
to trace in her mind every phase of the combination of accidents 
which had finally led to the present appalling and almost in- 
credible position. She had never told James Sinclair her hus- 
band’s name ; he had, consequently, not the slightest idea that 
she was princess del Monte. She had forbidden him even to 
allude to the husband from whom, she had told him frankly, 
she had separated herself completely ; and, like a true gentle- 
man, he had studiously refrained from the remotest attempt to 
question her as to her married life, or her husband’s identity. 
He had known her as the marchesa di San Vico. There had 
been no deception here, for she was the marchesa di San Vico, 
and was then known to the world by that name. But she had 
been married to Anthony as princess del Monte — a title which 
nothing would have induced her again to use had it not been that 
the legal necessity for employing it on the occasion of her re- 
marriage had been explained to her by her lawyer. The English 
papers had contained a brief notice, sent to them by Anthony, to 
the effect that a marriage had taken place at Rome between 
Anthony Cuthbert, of Cuthbertsheugh, Northumberland, and 
Laura, daughter of the late duke of Carmagnano, and widow of 
the late prince del Monte. There was nothing in that announce- 
ment to identify her in James Sinclair’s mind with Sonia, marchesa 
di San Vico. He had been absolutely ignorant of Italy and Italian 
society ; and, knowing that he was so, she had been all the more 
certain that nothing save a most improbable chance could ever 
make him aware that the marchesa di San Vico and the princess 
del Monte were one and the same person. Even the abandon- 
ment of her Christian name of Laura for her second name of 
Sonia had assisted an unintentional deception. No ; every link 
was complete, every combination of circumstances crushing in its 
logical and cruel sequence. 

The only point which Sonia could not clearly explain to her- 
self was how it had come about that Anthony had not alluded to 


250 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


her in his letters to his nephew from Rome as marchesa di San 
Vico, and had apparently never even mentioned that when he 
arrived there he had found she had abandoned the title of del 
Monte. Had Anthony done so, James Sinclair would surely have 
understood that she had not realised the relationship between him- 
self and the man she was then about to marry. He would have 
written or telegraphed to her to San Vico to reveal his identity 
and save her and his uncle from the horrible situation which a 
fatal ignorance of the truth had brought about. 

A sensation of physical discomfort roused Sonia from the 
dull, hopeless mental agony in which her train of thoughts had 
plunged her, and she suddenly became conscious that she was 
shivering from cold. The fire had long smouldered itself out, 
and nothing but a heap of ashes was left of it. But there was 
light in the room, a pale grey light which filtered through the 
curtained windows. Day had dawned. In a few hours she could 
no longer be alone. She would have to meet Anthony; but 
how, how? She must have time, time to think. And in some 
way she must communicate with Jim, as Anthony called him. 
He would not betray her, or she him. Theirs was a secret 
which could not be betrayed. 

The knowledge of it would kill Anthony — Anthony, who had 
been so patient, so loyal, so generous in his love for her. She 
had married him to reward him for his loyalty, deeply grateful to 
him for it, and confident that in time, perhaps in a very short time, 
gratitude, respect, and the remnants of the old girlish affection 
she had had for him would develop into love. It would not be 
the love she had allowed herself to realise once in her life. That 
had passed — long pent-up flames of passion, scorching and 
withering in its passing. What remained of it she had told 
herself that she would utterly subdue and cast out for Anthony 
Cuthbert’s sake. She had meant to make him happy, to be a 
good and loyal wife to him — and now ! 

No ; she must think, plan, deceive, if necessary ; but her 
husband must never know the truth. Jim must help her to keep 
it from him, and from the world. He would do that. He, too, 
had proved himself loyal, and to be a chivalrous gentleman. 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


25 l 


Moreover, he loved Anthony as Anthony loved him. Yes, Jim 
must help her, and it would be no wrong, no disloyalty to 
Anthony if they pledged themselves to deceive him together until 
the end. 

Suddenly Sonia shivered again. She felt a strange sensation 
ot nausea, of indefinable discomfort. Was she going to faint a 
second time, she wondered ? She had experienced that sudden 
feeling of nausea before in the course of the last few days, but it 
had passed quickly and she had dismissed it from her mind. 
Her head throbbed with pain. What was it ? Was she going to 
be ill now, when she needed all her strength, all her courage and 
presence of mind ? A sudden thought struck her like a blow, 
and she reeled back and fell into a chair. “ Not that ! ” she cried 
aloud. “Ah, my God, it cannot be that.” 

Then, in the grey dawn, dreading that she was indeed about 
to lose consciousness again, she groped her way into the adjoin- 
ing room and crept tremblingly and despairingly into the great 
bed with its hangings of old embroidery worked by her pre- 
decessors in the Cuthbert family long years ago. For a time she 
lay motionless, crushed beneath the weight of this new horror 
forcing itself upon her mind. And presently her exhausted 
nature asserted itself. Sleep came to her, heavy, and, mercifully, 
dreamless. 


CHAPTER XXI 


HE sleep produced by mental and bodily exhaustion into 



X which Sonia had fallen lasted some three or four hours, 
and it was already seven o’clock when she awoke from it. For a 
space she tried in vain to remember where she was, and what 
might be the precise nature of the disaster which she vaguely 
felt had overtaken her. Then, the full extent of that disaster 
seemed to come upon her with an overwhelming rush of recol- 
lection. Those few hours’ sleep, however, had restored her 
mind to something of its natural balance ; and with this returned 
to her, too, something of her usual spirit and determination 
to do what was possible to meet the terrible difficulties which 
faced her. 

She felt weak, and realised that she was in need of food, for 
she had eaten little the night before. She was about to ring for 
her maid when she recollected that she had locked all the doors 
of communication to her rooms, and her first act was quietly to 
unlock them. Then she rang the bell at her bedside. After 
some little delay which surprised her, for she had yet to learn the 
lateness of English households to begin the day, the maid 
appeared and, after opening the curtains and letting in the full 
light of the summer morning, staidly expressed a hope that she 
had rested well, and was feeling better. Sonia assured her that 
she had both slept and felt herself to be much better ; but that 
she should not get up until later, and would be glad of some 
coffee and rolls. The woman had not departed on her errand 
more than a few minutes when Anthony entered, coming not 
from his own apartment, but through the sitting-room. 

“ I told them to let me know as soon as you had rung your 
bell, and your maid had been to you,” he said. “ You see,” he 
continued, “ I kept my promise and did not disturb you ; but I 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


253 


listened several times at that door, and as I heard no sound, I 
hope you have slept, and that you are feeling all right again. 
But no, you are by no means all right again ! You are as pale as 
a ghost. I shall send for Dr. James from Alnwick to come and 
have a look at you.” 

Sonia raised herself quickly. “ Do not do that, Anthony,” 
she said hastily. “ I want no doctor, I will not see him if he 
comes : do you understand ? I will not ! ” 

“ All right, dear,” returned Anthony quietly ; “ I will not send 
for him if you do not feel to want a doctor. But you look ill. 
Are you sure you have not caught a chill travelling ? The change 
of climate ” 

“ A chill ? ” interrupted Sonia eagerly ; “ I dare say. Yes, 
very likely I have got a chill, but it is nothing, nothing at all ! I 
had a little fever in the night. That always leaves one pale. 
You will see that I shall be much better when I have had my 
coffee ; and later I shall get up and join you downstairs before 
luncheon.” 

Anthony was not satisfied. “ You are sure you ought to get 
up?” he asked. “To me,” he added, “you look really ill. If 
I do not see a great improvement by luncheon-time, I shall 
certainly write to Dr. James, and beg him to come out to- 
morrow to look at you. That reminds me, my sister is coming to 
luncheon to-day, as I told you. Would you like me to telegraph 
to her and put her off? She will quite understand, if I tell her that 
you are knocked up with all your journeys of the last few days.” 

“ No,” Sonia replied, almost impatiently, “ I tell you it is 
nothing, and you must certainly not put your sister off. But you 
must promise me, Anthony, that you will not send for a doctor. 
It would be absurd, useless too, for nothing would induce me to 
see him.” 

“ Very well, dear, it shall be as you like. But you must 
promise me on your part that you will tell me if you do not feel 
better, or if you have any return of fever. You must keep quiet 
and not tire yourself. I am afraid of you fighting against this 
chill which you have evidently got, in order to go about the place 
with me.” 


254 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


Sonia looked at him with a curious little smile. “ I am 
always fighting against things,” she replied. “ I suppose it is my 
destiny. Generally I conquer them ; so do not be alarmed.” 

The maid entered at this moment with a tray on which were 
temptingly arranged not only the modest coffee and rolls which 
Sonia had ordered, but also an egg, a little silver dish containing 
bacon, and a basket of beautiful old Sevres china in which were 
some freshly gathered strawberries. Sonia smiled faintly. “ It is 
too much,” she said. “ Am I expected to eat all these things at 
this hour of the morning ? ” Nevertheless, she was craving for 
food, and Anthony had no difficulty in persuading her to eat. 

“ What time does your sister arrive ? ” she asked him pre- 
sently. 

“Jane? Oh, not till about half-past one. She is coming by 
train from Alnwick, and I am sending to the station to meet her. 
Indeed, perhaps I may drive there myself, and bring her back 
with me. Luncheon is not till a quarter to two, so you see you 
will have plenty of time to wait before you are expected to eat 
again ! ” 

“Yes, by all means go and meet your sister,” Sonia answered, 
•'* I shall remain where I am till midday, and you will find me 
downstairs waiting for you when you return from the station.” 

Anthony lingered until she had finished her breakfast, and 
then left her, advising her to try and sleep again for another two 
or three hours, as it was yet scarcely eight o’clock. He himself 
had a quantity of letters to write and business to attend to, which 
would keep him fully occupied until it was time to meet his 
sister’s train. 

About one o’clock Sonia went downstairs. A servant in- 
formed her that Mr. Cuthbert had driven to the railway station a 
short time before. It was a perfect summer day, hot, but not air- 
less ; and the windows of the library to which Sonia found her 
way were all open. The terrace beneath them was in the shade, 
and she went down the flight of weather-worn stone steps leading 
to it. She had recovered her physical strength, and now felt that 
every moment was invaluable during which she could be alone to 
think. She even looked forward with relief to the prospect of 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


255 


Jane Cuthbert’s arrival. The presence of a stranger would oblige 
her to talk. She would be compelled to make an attempt to 
throw off for the moment the deadly weight which was crushing 
her, and anything was better just then than being tete-a-tete with 
Anthony. If she could not be absolutely alone, then she would 
have welcomed the presence of a multitude rather than have to 
sit and listen while her husband talked to her about Jim, and his 
intentions concerning him. In the evening she could plead her 
indisposition as an excuse to retire early, and until then there 
would be her sister-in-law to entertain. She paced up and down 
the terrace making the most of her time for thinking out some 
plan whereby she should be able to communicate with Jim imme- 
diately without arousing Anthony’s surprise. Jim must not come 
to Cuthbertsheugh in ignorance. Such a meeting must infallibly 
betray them, and at all risks she must discover some means of 
preventing it. Thank God, he had accepted this invitation to 
Scotland, and had not stayed on at Cuthbertsheugh to welcome 
his uncle’s bride ! 

“ My dear ! is this wise of you ? ” 

Sonia started at the sound of Anthony’s voice, and turned 
round quickly. She had been walking away from the library 
windows, and the footsteps behind her had made no sound on 
the soft, velvety turf of the terrace. A tall, hard-featured woman, 
but handsome withal, was standing by Anthony, gazing at her 
critically from a pair of cold, greyish blue eyes. Sonia advanced 
towards her hastily with outstretched hand. “ We need not wait 
to be introduced to one another,” she said. “ It is a great 
pleasure to me to know you.” 

She experienced the sensation as though her hand was being 
momentarily grasped by a piece of wood, rigid, and unresponsive, 
and then flung back at her. 

“ How do you do, Mrs. Cuthbert ? I hope you like 
Cuthbertsheugh.” 

“Mrs. Cuthbert!” exclaimed Anthony. “My dear Jane! 
Laura — Sonia — which is it to be ? ” he added, laughing, and 
turning to his wife. 

« Sonia, please. I — I think Cuthbert’s-oof enchanting.” 


256 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


“I am delighted to hear it,” observed Miss Cuthbert drily. 
“ My brother tells me that you are not well. You certainly 
do not look well. I hope you are strong ! ” 

Anthony came to the rescue. “ She has had so much 
travelling,” he said, “ and it was very hot in Italy and coming 
through France. I am afraid that Sonia has managed to get 
a chill from the change to our northern climate. We think it 
very hot here, Jane — and so it is — for Northumberland ! She is 
accustomed to much greater heat than ours.” 

Sonia was conscious of the cold, penetrating gaze fixed upon 
her again. 

“ Soneyer,” remarked Miss Cuthbert. “ A very strange name. 
I have never heard it before.” 

“It is a Russian name,” explained Sonia hastily. “I was 
called it after my grandmother.” 

“Dear me, Anthony! what a mixture of blood. Russian? 
h’m. You can’t remember poor Edward Cuthbert, Anthony; 
the colonel, I mean. You were a boy when he was killed in the 
Crimean War.” 

“And Sonia was not born,” returned her brother drily; 
“and, I imagine, probably never heard of the Crimean War.” 

Jane Cuthbert drew in her thin, clear-cut lips and sniffed. 
“ Our hereditary enemies,” she said acidly, “ but of course your 
wife cannot be held responsible for that! You have never been 
in England before, I believe — er — Soneyer ? ” 

“ Never ! ” 

“ And yet you talk our language well — really very well. I am 
agreeably surprised. Of course anybody could tell at once that 
you were a foreigner ; but it is a great thing to have learned to 
speak English more or less correctly. How did you learn it ? ” 

“lam afraid I learned it chiefly from servants and governesses, 
when I was a girl.” 

“ Ah — I thought so ! I noticed that you dropped an h in 
Cuthbertsheugh. Our lower classes generally drop or misplace 
their K s; but not so much with us in the North as they do 
elsewhere. However, you will soon learn to correct that fault, 
living with educated people.” 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


257 


Sonia scarcely heard what Miss Cuthbert was saying. She 
was engaged in studying her sister-in-law’s figure and personality 
attentively. She noted the high cheek-bones, the cold eyes and 
hard, determined mouth ; and yet she recognised, too, that Miss 
Cuthbert was not only a handsome woman in her own un- 
sympathetic way, but that she had also about her that stamp of 
good birth and ancient breeding which was so conspicuous in her 
brother. As she looked at her, a sudden shiver ran through 
Sonia’s veins. What a bitter, relentless woman the possessor 
of such features could surely be ; and how merciless would be 
her attitude towards the foreigner her brother had married, if she 
only — knew ! 

Anthony Cuthbert turned a little impatiently to his wife. 

“ It was wrong of you to come out, dear,” he said to her 
affectionately. “You should have kept quiet in the house to-day. 
Not but what you are certainly looking better than you did early 
this morning,” he added. 

“I am better — much better ! ” exclaimed Sonia eagerly. 
“ Please, Anthony, do not notice or be uneasy if I look pale, 
or do not talk much. My head aches still. It is the result of 
— of the fever I told you I had in the night. It will probably 
return a little this evening — so you must just let me be quiet if 
it does so — and I shall go to my room early.” 

“Were you sick crossing the Channel?” asked Jane Cuthbert 
abruptly. 

“ No ; I have been a great deal at sea. I am never ill,” replied 
Sonia. 

“ It would have been better if you had been sick,” Miss 
Cuthbert retorted. “ Probably you require a dose. After a long 
journey I always take one. A blue pill is a good thing. But you 
must not forget to take something after it — when you wake in the 
morning. The housekeeper, Mrs. Mitchell, will provide you with 
what is necessary. When I was at the head of my father’s estab- 
lishment, and afterwards of Anthony’s in his bachelor days, I 
always insisted on the housekeeper having medicines by her. 
Cuthbertsheugh is so far from any doctor or chemist.” 

“ My dear Jane,” intervened Anthony, seeing Sonia’s look of 

17 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


258 

blank astonishment, “you will frighten Sonia with your — well, 
your drastic British remedies ! It must be past luncheon-time. 
Shall we go in ? You must be hungry, Jane. Sonia, if you are 
really not tired, will you take her to your room ? and I will wait 
for you both in the library.” 

“ The best thing to do is to leave them together,” he said to 
himself. “ Jane’s snappishness will soon wear off. It is more than 
half shyness. But I wish Sonia, as I suppose I must call her, 
looked as she did yesterday when she was speaking to the tenants. 
It is hard upon the poor child to have to tackle Jane, when she 
has had fever and has still got a bad headache ! ” 

In the course of luncheon Jane Cuthbert thawed. Indeed, 
she became quite friendly with her brother’s wife, and was evi- 
dently trying her best to make herself pleasant and agreeable to 
her. She never once alluded to Sonia’s religion, or, for that 
matter, to any indiscreet topic. Sonia, too, met her sister-in-law 
more than half-way in her efforts, though Anthony could see that 
she was by no means her usual self, and was distressed at the 
expression of suffering which he more than once surprised on her 
face when she thought he and his sister were busy talking to each 
other. Jane, he knew, was in reality an extremely kind-hearted 
woman, especially if she once realised that a person was ill or in 
serious trouble. Miss Cuthbert, indeed, was one of those people 
whose spleen is apt to rise against the fortunate and the healthy 
in life. The prosperous and happy were far more likely to experi- 
ence the bitter side of her tongue than the needy or the ailing. 
That his sister had already made allowances for Sonia’s unlucky 
indisposition was evident to Anthony ; and he flattered himself 
that she was interested in and, if he were not mistaken, a little 
fascinated by her. This, he told himself, might have the best 
results for Sonia’s success in the county ; for if once Jane made 
a friend, or an enemy, the county soon knew of it, and of the 
reasons which had conduced to the fact. 

After luncheon he absented himself for a space on the plea of 
having to finish his correspondence, suggesting that in the mean- 
while Jane should take his wife over portions of the house she had 
not yet seen. This suggestion he regarded as a masterly stroke of 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


259 


diplomacy — since nothing gave Miss Cuthbert greater pleasure 
than to show off the glories of the old family dwelling over 
which she had so long reigned as supreme mistress. If Sonia 
were acute enough to play the part of an interested, and, still 
better, of a suitably-impressed listener, it was more than probable 
that she would have enlisted Jane as a staunch and loyal sup- 
porter by the time the inspection was finished. 

When he rejoined them about an hour afterwards, Anthony 
had every reason to think that matters had turned out as he 
had hoped. Jane was talking quite amicably to her sister-in-law, 
and apparently acquainting her with various details, intimate 
and otherwise, concerning the different families in the county 
to which, as Mrs. Cuthbert, of Cuthbertsheugh, Sonia now 
belonged. 

Sonia herself did not appear to be taking any active part in 
the conversation ; but she was performing the role of listener well 
enough; and even Anthony did not suspect how far away her 
thoughts were from the doings and misdoings of Northumbrian 
magnates whose names, with one or two possible exceptions, she 
now heard for the first time. Her manner, always easy and 
simple, betrayed not the least indication of the fact that she had 
only the vaguest idea of what Miss Cuthbert was talking, but 
realised that her observations were made with the kindly intention 
of giving her information which could not fail to be useful to her. 

Jane Cuthbert had to return to Alnwick by a train leaving 
shortly before six o’clock ; and Anthony suggested that they 
should have tea early, and that Sonia, if she did not think a drive 
would do her any harm, should take her to the station. Sonia 
assented readily. The air, she declared, would do her headache 
good, and a drive was just what she should like. About half-past 
four the tea-tables were brought out on to the terrace. Anthony 
Cuthbert laughingly called his wife’s attention to the fact that 
she had now to inaugurate her duties as mistress of Cuthberts- 
heugh by pouring out the tea, and instructed her in the art of 
making it. Jane Cuthbert looked on at the proceedings with 
a doubtful expression on her face. A woman who required to be 
taught how to make tea, she thought, would need to be taught 


26 o 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


many other things before she could take up her position satis- 
factorily as mistress of Cuthbertsheugh. She said nothing, how- 
ever ; which forbearance was a sure sign that she wished to be 
conciliatory, and was ready to overlook and make allowances for 
shortcomings which, of course, were to be expected in a foreigner. 
The greatest trial to Jane’s composure, and one under which she 
nearly gave way, consisted in the discovery, only made after tea — 
since Sonia had not felt inclined for her cigarette after luncheon — 
that her successor as mistress of Cuthbertsheugh smoked. In her 
eyes such a habit in a woman was altogether reprehensible, if not 
actually immoral. She fixed a grim and disapproving look on the 
unconscious Sonia, who had almost mechanically taken a cigarette 
from a little silver box on the tea-table, and was sending little 
puffs of smoke into the air, hardly aware that she was smoking. 

“This must certainly be stopped,” Jane Cuthbert said to 
herself. “ I shall speak to Anthony about it, and tell him that 
he really must forbid her to do such a thing. Good gracious ! 
what would the Heiferlaw people think? and what would they 
say at the Castle, if they could see her ? ” 

They were sitting waiting until it should be time for Jane 
Cuthbert and Sonia to get ready for their drive to the railway 
station, when the butler appeared bringing the afternoon post. 

“A letter from Jim,” observed Anthony, as he turned over 
the packet of missives handed to him. He put the other letters 
aside and opened it. “Only a few lines,” he said, “just to say 
that he hopes we arrived here all right, Sonia, and that we were 
duly pleased and surprised by the arrangements made for our 
reception. We can certainly tell him that we were both the one 
and the other. Would you like to read the letter?” and he 
tossed it across the table to Sonia. 

She took it up and looked hurriedly at the handwriting. 
Yes, it was the same somewhat straggling writing she had 
noticed when, one afternoon at Syracuse, she and her companion 
there had been engaged in making out their journey to Florence. 
He had written down the hours of departure and arrival of the 
trains at the various places on the way, and she had laughed at 
his handwriting, and had told him that it was more like a boy’s 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


261 


than that of a man. It was a peculiar writing, and she had 
noticed it the more because it had seemed to her to convey 
something of its writer’s natural, careless character. But this 
additional proof of identity scarcely affected her. She had by 
this time made up her mind that things were — as they were ; 
and that it was useless to deceive herself, and to waste valuable 
time, by imagining that some proof would be forthcoming to 
show that her husband’s nephew and the Captain Sinclair she 
had met at Malta were two distinct individuals happening to bear 
the same names. 

Sonia barely glanced at the contents of the letter. Her gaze 
fixed itself on the address stamped on the note-paper. 

“Invernuilt Lodge, Strathcarron, Ross-shire, N.B.” It was 
there in full, and she noticed that it was also stamped on the 
envelope. Chance had thrown into her hand the very informa- 
tion she had most longed to possess. Anthony might have 
wondered why she should wish to learn his nephew’s address, 
had she been compelled to ask it of him. She had thought of 
asking the butler or Mrs. Mitchell where Captain Sinclair was 
staying in Scotland; but she had shrunk from mentioning his 
name to anybody at Cuthbertsheugh since she had discovered 
his identity. She rose from her chair. “ I shall leave you and 
your sister to talk to each other,” she said to Anthony ; “lam 
sure you must have much you wish to say. I am going to put 
on some warmer things before driving, so as not to keep you 
waiting when the carriage comes,” she added, turning to Miss 
Cuthbert. And then she went into the house, holding the 
envelope which she had been crumpling in her hand while she 
was speaking. She felt that she could no longer endure the strain 
of forcing herself to talk of and listen to indifferent things. She 
must be alone again, if it were only for half-an-hour, before she 
should have to drive with Anthony’s sister to the station — alone, 
to think, now that she had got Jim Sinclair’s address, how she 
could communicate with him without raising suspicion. It 
would never do to write a letter to him, though, to be sure, 
she might tell Anthony that she should like to write herself to 
his nephew to tell him she hoped he would always make Cuth- 


262 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


bertsheugh his home in the future as he had begun to do in the 
past. Ah, but it was odious, insufferable, this part she would 
have to play of deceiving Anthony ! And there could be no 
end to it. She must deceive, and continue to deceive, until 
the end of her days or of his. Nothing could undo the past — 
that short past, limited to a few days of delirious joy and of 
the very fulness of the cup of life, until then scarcely tasted. 
And nothing could undo the present except death, or the dis- 
covery on the part of the man she had married in all good faith 
of a horror which would be worse than death to him, and to 
herself. Why, she asked herself, had not Anthony broken off 
all relations with her when she had frankly told him that not 
so long ago she had had a lover; and that, though she had 
sent that lover away from her for ever, she had done so because 
she loved him, and would not wreck his future ? Had Anthony 
not understood all she meant to infer? He had understood 
perfectly, and understanding, he had insisted on her marrying 
him — content with her assurance that what she had told him was 
an episode for ever past, and that no man beside himself had 
any claim to her love. And the assurance had been true, 
absolutely true. She had neither deceived Anthony nor herself 
when she had given it. But now, her whole life must be one 
prolonged deception, one everlasting lie ; she, Sonia di San 
Vico, the wife of an honourable, great-hearted gentleman, whom 
she reverenced and could love ; she, whose pride it had been 
that, however much she had been wronged and deceived by 
others, she had never stooped to deceive any human being, and 
least of all to deceive herself! Surely, surely it was a bitter 
price to pay for a few days of passionate happiness, indulged in 
because its indulgence wronged no one ! Where had she read 
those terrible words, II y a une page effrayante dans le livre des 
destinees humames : on y lit en tete ces mots — les desirs accomplis l 
They were true. 

Well, there would be plenty of time for thinking, but now she 
must act. If she could only have an interview with Jim Sinclair, 
unsuspected and unknown to any one at Cuthbertsheugh ! But 
how, where ? The meeting would be repugnant, horrible ! but 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


263 

he would agree with her that at all risks, and at any cost to him- 
self and her, his uncle must be kept from ever knowing the truth. 
If she and Jim Sinclair kept their counsel there was but one 
danger left, that danger which she had for the first time realised 
in the dawn of the morning, the promonitory warnings of which 
she now wondered she had not recognised before. 

Anthony’s voice called her from the landing outside her 
sitting-room. “ Sonia,” he called, “ Sonia, are you ready ? The 
carriage is here, and you should be starting soon, or Jane will 
miss her train.” 

Sonia hastily found a warm wrap, and threw it round her, 
having already put on the hat she had discarded on bringing 
Miss Cuthbert up to her room before luncheon. “I am ready 
now,” she replied, and joined him on the staircase. 

“ Are you sure it will do you no harm to drive ? ” he asked. 
“ You have been so good talking to Jane — and so nice to her ! 
She has actually told me that she likes you, and for Jane to 
say that of somebody she has met for the first time means a 
great deal. But it must have been an effort for you, dear, I’m 
afraid.” 

“ I am glad your sister likes me,” returned Sonia, and then 
she exclaimed suddenly, “ How good you are to me, Anthony, 
far too good ! I ” 

He stopped her with a kiss. “ Hush,” he said, “ it is you 
who are good to me, and to everybody here at Cuthbertsheugh ! 
Do you know that you frightened me last night when you fainted? 
but you are much better this afternoon, are you not ? ” 

“Oh yes, much better!” exclaimed Sonia eagerly. “As I 
told you before, you must not be alarmed ! I only need rest — 
perhaps for a few days — and then I shall be quite well.” 

“ Jane has gone to see the gardener’s wife,” Anthony said, as 
they descended the staircase, “ but she will be back in a few 
minutes. It will be quite time enough if you and she leave in a 
quarter of an hour or so. I hurried you on purpose — for I re- 
member how you used to keep me waiting at Rome while you 
were dressing for our drives together ! ” 

In a few minutes Miss Cuthbert returned to the terrace where 


264 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


Anthony and Sonia were waiting for her. “When are you 
coming over again?” asked Anthony, as she was preparing to 
say good-bye to him. 

“Yes, when?” repeated Sonia. 

“Let me see,” replied Jane Cuthbert, “to-day is Tuesday, 
and on Wednesday I have a meeting in my drawing-room in aid 
of our Society for the propagation of the Bible in Roman Cath — 
I mean a religious meeting,” she added hastily. “ Thursday is 
the flower-show in the dairy grounds at the Castle. You ought 
to take your wife there, Anthony, and make her acquainted with 
everybody. I could come Friday, if that suits you.” 

“ Friday ? ” said Anthony. “ Well, Jane, I’m afraid I may 
have to go to Yorkshire on Friday for some tiresome business — 
and I don’t think I could manage to get back here till Saturday 
evening. Why not come on Saturday, and stay on over Sunday 
and Monday ? ” 

“You are going away on Friday?” asked Sonia quickly. 

“ I do not see how I can get off it,” answered Anthony. “ The 
only question is what you will do with yourself all Friday and 
Saturday, Sonia.” 

“ I shall make some expedition if I feel well enough,” she 
replied. “ You say there are many interesting places to see near 
here, and I like exploring strange places alone. I am used to it, 
am I not, Anthony ? ” 

“ Indeed you are ! Sonia has been a great traveller,” he 
added to his sister. 

“Why not come over and see Alnwick?” suggested Jane 
Cuthbert. “You can have luncheon with me, and I will take 
you to the castle afterwards.” 

“ No,” interposed her brother. “We will come over together 
and pay you a visit, Jane, one of those days. I wonder what you 
would like particularly to see, Sonia ? I could arrange it for you. 
There are horses and carriages doing nothing.” 

“ I should like to see — let me think — ah, that castle of the 
Percies one reads of in Shakespeare. Not Alnwick, War — 
War ” 

“Warkworth? I’m afraid that is a long way from here. 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 265 

You would have to go by train. It is on the main line between 
Alnmouth and Newcastle.” 

“ Newcastle ? ” asked Sonia ; “ that is the large town we passed 
where the people came to the railway carriage and congratulated 
us, is it not ? ” 

“ Precisely. Well, I don’t see why you should not go 
to Warkworth, if you like. One of the footmen can go with 
you, and take a luncheon-basket, and you could picnic on the 
banks of the Coquet below the castle. Only you shan’t go 
unless you are perfectly well ! ” 

“ I could take her to Warkworth, Anthony,” said Miss Cuth- 
bert, “ we could meet at the station at Alnwick. She would have 
to change there.” 

“ Oh no, no, you are much too kind,” exclaimed Sonia, “ but 
really I delight in seeing new places alone. It amuses me to 
feel that I am an unknown tourist, and when one knows the 
language of a country there is no difficulty.” 

“Jane will think you a regular Bohemian!” said Anthony, 
laughing, “well, we will see about it, Sonia. And now I am 
afraid you must really start, unless you want to make Jane late,” 
and he accompanied them through the house to the entrance- 
door on the other side of it where the carriage was waiting. 


CHAPTER XXII 


HE bitter experiences of her past life had given to Sonia 



1 the power of acting with promptitude in emergencies, and 
a certain calm and almost cynical courage in facing difficulties 
with which she might find herself confronted. She had made 
up her mind rapidly that Anthony’s absence from Cuthberts- 
heugh for practically two days would be in all probability her 
sole opportunity of being able to arrange a meeting with Jim 
Sinclair before the date arrived when it had been settled that 
he should return from Scotland, and again take up his abode 
in his uncle’s house. There was, however, no time to be lost. 
To write to Jim was now impossible, or, rather it would be 
useless to do so. The post for that day had already gone, and 
he would therefore not receive a letter before Thursday at the 
earliest — and scarcely then — as Ross-shire, she knew, was in the 
far north of Scotland. To telegraph to him, naming some place 
in the neighbourhood of Cuthbertsheugh where he could meet 
her on the following Friday, was clearly the only course open 
to her, since she could not run the risk of entering into a cor- 
respondence with him from Cuthbertsheugh. She sat in the 
carriage listening, or pretending to listen to Jane Cuthbert’s 
dissertations on all that she ought to do at Cuthbertsheugh, the 
people with whom she might safely be intimate, and those to 
whom occasional civilities would be sufficient ; but all the time 
her mind was working feverishly, and she was striving to think how 
she could despatch a telegram without the risk of the fact reach- 
ing her husband’s ears, and how she could word it so as not to 
cause astonishment to the telegraph clerk, who would certainly 
know Jim at all events by name, and would no doubt guess 
her identity. The train was already signalled when the carriage 
reached the station, and it was with inexpressible relief that a 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


267 


few minutes afterwards Sonia saw it depart bearing her sister-in- 
law back to Alnwick. As she took her seat in the carriage 
again, the footman asked her if she wished to return to Cuthberts- 
heugh. 

“ No,” she replied, “ I should like a longer drive. Is there 
not a village or a town near ? I want to see something of the 
country, and also to send a telegram which I forgot to send 
from the house.” 

The footman consulted the coachman, who turned round 
on his box, and informed her that there was a very pretty drive 
near the Till, in the direction of Chillingham. There was no 
village to speak of near, and certainly no town ! but they would 
pass a post and telegraph office two or three miles further on. 

Sonia thanked him with the pleasant smile which had already 
captivated the man the day before, when Anthony had intro- 
duced him to her as an old servant who had been many years 
at Cuthbertsheugh. “ That will do very well,” she said. “Take 
me any drive which is pretty. And stop, please, before you 
reach the telegraph office — about a quarter of a mile before — 
as I want to walk a little.” 

The request was unusual perhaps ; but she hastily reflected 
that if the Cuthbertsheugh carriage drew up at the office, her 
identity would be at once suspected. The coachman did as 
he was told; and the footman informed Sonia, as he opened 
the carriage door for her, that if she followed the road for a 
few hundred yards, she would come to the little post-office where 
she could send her telegram. She told him that she would 
come back to the carriage, and that it need not follow her. 
As she walked along the dusty lane, she kept repeating to her- 
self various ways of wording her message ; for it was, in truth, 
no easy one to construct. Arriving at the post-office, and having 
entered the unlatched door, she found herself in what was 
practically a small shop, existing, apparently, for the purpose 
of supplying the children of the neighbourhood with sweets, 
and the labourers with tobacco. An old woman in spectacles 
peered at her from behind a counter, one end of which was 
devoted to the affairs of the Postmaster-general, and asked her 


268 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


what she might be wanting. On being informed, the old lady 
called a girl, who emerged from a back room. “ My sight’s 
none so good as it was,” she explained apologetically, “so my 
niece attends to the post-office.” Apparently not many tele- 
grams were despatched in the course of the week, or even 
probably in the course of many weeks, for some delay and 
opening of various drawers occurred before telegram forms 
could be found. Finally, however, a packet of them was pro- 
duced; and Sonia, pencil in hand, proceeded to compose her 
message. She tore into small pieces so many forms in the 
process, that she felt the pair of spectacled eyes were fixed 
upon her reproachfully as a wanton destroyer of Government 
property. At last, however, she succeeded in writing out a 
message which, if not to her satisfaction, would at all events, 
she thought, bring Jim Sinclair without fail to her during the 
Friday on which Anthony would be absent. 

“ Must see you on most urgent business. I shall be at Wark- 
worth on Friday. Be there yourself on Thursday night, and 
meet me at the castle Friday morning. A matter of gravest im- 
portance to communicate to you. I trust you not to fail me. I 
give you no address where to reply, as am confident you will 
meet me as I wish.” 

She hesitated as to what signature to place to the message, 
and finally signed it “Sonia di San Vico,” copying out Jim’s 
Scottish address from the envelope of his letter she had brought 
with her. The girl read over the telegram stolidly and indiffe- 
rently, only pausing at the signature, which Sonia had to repeat 
to her letter by letter. “ You are sure that it is clear — that there 
will be no mistake ? ” Sonia asked anxiously. The girl assured 
her that there would be no mistake. It was only the name of the 
sender, she explained, which had puzzled her. “ It is a foreign 
name,” Sonia observed quietly. “ I am staying in this neigh- 
bourhood, and am going to see Warkworth Castle on Friday. 
Please despatch the message at once.” Paying for the telegram, 
she left the little shop, and slowly retraced her steps to the 
carriage. 

It would have been impossible, she told herself, to explain, 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


269 


or to put in the telegram more or less than she had done. She 
must trust Jim Sinclair would understand that she had some 
urgent reason for summoning him to her ; and the rest must be 
explained when they met. He would be amazed at receiving a 
telegram from her from Northumberland, appointing a meeting 
with him at Warkworth. But he had sworn that he would come 
to her whenever and wherever she might tell him to do so ; and 
she felt convinced he would not fail her. It was possible that some 
glimmering of the truth might dawn upon him when he read the 
message. If that were so, it would be all the better. He would 
be prepared, if only to a slight degree, for the terrible shock she 
would have to inflict upon him. He would get the telegram in 
ample time for him to travel to Warkworth on Thursday, and 
there must surely be some inn there at which he could spend the 
night, and await her arrival the following morning. Yes, she 
had done the only possible thing under the circumstances ; and, 
thank God, Anthony would be absent and need never know of 
their meeting ! She would have to lay her plans carefully, so as 
to be able to make her expedition to Warkworth unattended by any 
servant. Fortunately Anthony knew how fond she was of travel- 
ling alone, and how used she was to doing so. He would not 
be uneasy lest she should get into difficulties, as she spoke English 
so fluently. She must exert herself during the next two days to 
appear well both in body and mind. It was for Anthony’s own 
sake she was deceiving him, and his nephew would understand 
this, and help her to act in the future so as to keep him for ever 
in ignorance of this terrible thing. 

She found the coachman slowly walking his horses up and 
down the road near the spot at which she had left the carriage. 
After she had got into it, the footman stood at the door waiting 
for her orders. 

“A casa ! ” she said to him absently — “I mean,” she con- 
tinued hastily, seeing the perplexed look on the man’s face, 
“ Home.” 

By the time Sonia reached Cuthbertsheugh she felt a certain 
relief of mind. At any rate she had done all she could ; and 
had taken the first step of that weary path of involuntary and 


270 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


repugnant deception which lay before her, stretching itself out 
into a hopeless distance of which she could not see the limit. 
“ Anthony must never know — at all costs, he must never know.” 
This was the thought which beat upon her brain with insistent 
and monotonous regularity. Of that other thing— the peril with 
which, in a few short months, she now felt convinced she must 
be confronted, she scarcely dared as yet to think. For the 
moment, it must be sufficient to come to an understanding with 
Jim Sinclair, by which their terrible secret should remain unknown 
and unsuspected. 

Anthony Cuthbert met his wife at the front door as the 
carriage drove up to it. 

“Jane was in time for the train ?” he asked, helping her to 
alight. “ I was really afraid you might be too late, for I believe 
our clocks here are slow. And you are none the worse for your 
drive?” he added. “You have been out longer than I ex- 
pected.” 

“ I asked to be taken a longer drive,” Sonia replied, as they 
entered the house together. “It is such a fine evening, and I 
felt that the air was doing me good. We went for some distance 
near a river, and the hills looked lovely. Your country is 
beautiful, Anthony.” 

“You like it?” he answered, in pleased tones. “You will 
like it better when you have seen more of it. You certainly 
look much better. You have more colour in your cheeks. 
What do you say, Laura — Sonia, I mean — about driving over to 
the flower-show at Alnwick on Thursday ? If you felt up to it, 
and it was a fine day, it would be a good opportunity of making 
you acquainted with a lot of people you will have to meet sooner 
or later. And you would see the castle, too, and when you got 
inside it be able to imagine yourself in one of your Italian 
palaces. Outside it is probably the finest thing of its kind in 
England.” 

Sonia shook her head. “Unless you want me very par- 
ticularly to go,” she replied, “I really think I would rather stay 
quietly here. I have a great deal to see yet at Cuthbertsheugh, 
and no doubt I shall have many opportunities of visiting Alnwick. 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


271 


Besides, I do want to see Warkworth, because I have read about 
it, and two days’ sight-seeing would be more than I feel inclined 
for until I have really recovered from our long journey from 
Rome.” 

“ In that case we certainly won’t go to Alnwick,” Anthony 
returned. “ I am only afraid that you will find Warkworth too 
long a day for you. It must be five-and-twenty miles from here.” 

Sonia smiled. “That is nothing,” she said, “I have ridden 
more than that distance in my travels. And on Friday I shall 
only have to sit in a train.” 

“Well, I will make out the journey for you. It is not very 
complicated. You will have to leave this rather early, if you 
wish to have plenty of time there, and you will have to change 
your train at Alnwick. I shall have to leave earlier than you do, 
and I think I shall probably drive to Belford, and get into the 
south train there. I enjoy the drive over there on a summer 
morning. If I came with you as far as Warkworth, I should 
miss my connection at Darlington ; as from there I have to go 
by a local train.” 

“ You must not think of me at all,” said Sonia. “ I am 
determined to be a tourist on Friday, and to be quite independent. 
I will not have anybody with me.” 

“ You must take a footman,” interrupted Anthony. 

“ I won’t ! I shall go alone. If I want luncheon, I suppose 
there is an hotel at Warkworth where I can get it ? ” 

“ Of course ! Quite a comfortable one. But what a mad 
idea, Sonia ! ” 

“ Very likely ! It is a — what do you call it ? — a whim. I 
want to wander about that old castle by myself and imagine 
Hotspur and Lady Percy — Kate, was she not ? — and ail Shake- 
speare’s characters. You see I know something of your Nor- 
thumberland — I believe I have got the name right at last — 
characters. Yes, Anthony, you must let me do as I choose on 
Friday. I promise you I will not lose myself! and I shall 
leave word at what hour the carriage is to come for me again at 
the station. If you like I will send you a telegram to say that I 
have returned here safely.” 


272 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


“ Do ! ” replied Anthony. “ Well,” he continued, “ you are 
a wilful woman — you always were, I believe! — and I suppose 
you must have your own way. But next time you make an 
expedition in Nor-tum-ber-land I shall insist upon your taking 
me with you ! ” 

“Then I need take nobody with me on Friday? I may go 
alone ? ” 

Anthony laughed. “I suppose you must, as you make a 
point of it,” he said, “ and, after all, I don’t see what can happen 
to you ! Yes, you shall go alone to Warkworth, and dream your 
dreams by the side of the Coquet. It will all be looking beauti- 
ful in this weather, and you ought to hire a boat and be rowed up 
the river, to the hermitage. You will be told an astounding 
number of untruths at that resort as to who the hermit was, and 
why he made so uncomfortable a home for himself. But you 
need not waste your time by listening to them. It is a very 
picturesque place, which is all that matters.” 

The next two days were fully taken up by the calls Anthony 
Cuthbert and his wife had to make on tenants and others who 
had given them so kindly a reception on their arrival at Cuthberts- 
heugh. Sonia went through her part with an easy grace and 
charm of manner to all classes indiscriminately which confirmed 
the good impression she had made at the first. What she was 
suffering in her mind nobody but herself could know ; nor would 
any of those who talked with her have guessed that she was 
playing as it were a scene upon the stage. She was glad, as a 
matter of fact, to go about among the people of the estate, and 
visit the farmers’ wives in their own homes. Anything was 
better than remaining alone with her husband. She could act 
the part she had assumed when in the company of strangers, but 
to do so with him was infinitely more difficult and painful to her. 
Every day and every hour of the day brought fresh proofs of how 
great was his affection for her, causing her to hate and despise 
herself ever more deeply, knowing that henceforth she could only 
repay his love for her with deception. With deception, yes, but 
never with ingratitude or disloyalty ! This thought was Sonia’s 
one consolation, and she clung to it more and more. Anthony 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


273 


had done everything that an honourable man could do to prove 
his enduring love for her. He had realised from the first that it 
had not been by any caprice or inconstancy of hers that his 
offer to marry her when she was a girl had been for the moment 
as good as accepted by her parents, only to be declined by them 
a few days afterwards as unsuitable nominally on account of 
difference in nationality and religion. During the period when 
she had been living in her husband’s house, though not with her 
husband, he had deliberately kept away from her so soon as 
he had understood that his visits would certainly be used as a 
weapon against her by prince del Monte. And when, at prince 
del Monte’s death, she had suddenly discovered that, though 
at last a free woman, she was practically a destitute one, he 
had come at once to her to offer her again his love if she 
would accept it, and in any case his faithful friendship and 
assistance in her troubles. To repay such affection and such 
loyalty as this with daily and hourly deception was to her detest- 
able, revolting. She doubted now, in the course of these last 
few hours, whether she had ever before fully realised the depth 
and generosity of Anthony’s love for her. It made that other 
love, born of passions long restrained and denied, which she had 
begun to feel for Jim Sinclair, appear by comparison as a shallow 
impetuous torrent contrasted with a deep, still river, as a fierce 
fire to a steady, brilliant flame. 

The hours passed — Sonia scarcely knew how — and at last 
Friday dawned. Anthony left Cuthbertsheugh at six in the 
morning, driving himself over to Belford in a dog-cart, and 
grumbling considerably at the inopportune business which took 
him away. He and the butler between them had made all 
the arrangements for Sonia’s short, though somewhat trouble- 
some journey to Warkworth. By leaving Cuthbertsheugh a 
little before ten, and changing twice on the way, she would 
reach Warkworth about midday, be able to spend the afternoon 
there, and be at home again in time for a late dinner. The day 
was a perfect one for making an expedition, though the cloudless 
blue sky overhead, and the light mist lying in the valley of the 
Till, betokened great heat later on. At any other time Sonia 
18 


274 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


would have delighted in observing the new country through 
which the train bore her ; but her mind had place for no thought 
except the ordeal through which she was about to pass. There 
could be no sparing of herself — no sparing, either, of the man 
who for a few short days had been her lover. They must both 
suffer, they who had been guilty, in order to avert suffering and 
dishonour from the guiltless and the honourable. The train 
into which she changed at Alnwick reached the little port of 
Alnmouth in a few minutes, and at the station there she had 
to wait for the train going southward to Newcastle. For the 
first time she glanced at the country around her, and became 
aware that she was close to the sea. Long curling waves, now 
blue, now crystal-green, broke lazily on the stretch of sands at 
the mouth of the Alne. A little fleet of herring-boats lay at 
anchor in the diminutive harbour, and further out to sea the 
colliers and ocean tramps were passing to and fro on their way 
between the Tyne and the Scottish ports. Coquet Island and 
its lighthouse gleamed white in the morning sun, and the fresh, 
invigorating air brought with it the sweet, salt breath of the 
North Sea. It was a day to feel happy upon — a day to experience 
la joie de vivre. Sonia looked around her and sighed bitterly. 
The heartlessness and serene indifference of Nature towards 
suffering and sorrow are ever an added pang to human woes. 

Anthony had duly warned his wife that Warkworth was the 
next station to Alnmouth. When Sonia alighted from the train 
nobody paid any particular attention to the quietly dressed lady 
who emerged from the station and inquired the way to the castle. 
She was informed that the town and the castle were some little 
distance away, and that she had better avail herself of the omni- 
bus. Sonia got into the vehicle, and was presently joined by 
a couple of commercial travellers and a farmer. The bagmen 
discussed samples, and the farmer made notes, presumably of 
prices, in a greasy pocket-book. The omnibus rattled, over 
the old stone bridge with its low picturesque gateway spanning 
the brown waters of the Coquet, and presently drew up before 
an inn in the centre of the long main street of the village. After 
paying her fare, Sonia was directed to walk straight up the street 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


275 


until she arrived at a turning to the left, which would lead her 
to the entrance to the castle. She saw the great Keep, with 
its projecting towers rising haughtily above the village; and two 
or three minutes’ walk along the turning she had been instructed 
to follow brought her to a gate opening on to an approach lead- 
ing directly up the hill to the ancient barbican of the Percy 
castle. Her heart beat almost to suffocation as she slowly as- 
cended towards the gateway, and once or twice she was obliged 
to stop. Suddenly a figure emerged hurriedly from the archway 
and came towards her with outstretched hands. 

“ Sonia ! ” a voice exclaimed, “ Sonia ! What in the name of 
all that is mysterious has brought you to Northumberland, to 
Warkworth? I got your telegram and I am here. Ah, Sonia, 
so at last you have sent for me. Ever since I left you I have 
been dreaming of to-day, of when you would tell me that you 
wanted me.” 

Sonia did not take his hands, did not see them, indeed. 
She raised her eyes and looked at him. Jim recoiled from 
her. “ What is it ? ” he exclaimed. “ What has happened to 
make you look at me like that ? Speak, for God’s sake. Why 
are you here ? where do you come from ? ” 

She paused for a moment, collecting her strength. “ I come 
from Cuthbertsheugh.” 

“From Cuthbertsheugh! — from my uncle’s place? But, 
Sonia, what can you mean? You must be joking. My uncle 
has just married. He only brought his wife there a few days 
ago, and I know that they are alone.” 

“ Do I look as if I were joking ? My God ! ” 

The custodian of the castle came up to them. He had a 
bunch of keys in his hand. Did they wish to see the interior of 
the castle — the dungeons, the banqueting-hall, the chapel ? The 
rooms which had been restored for the use of the family when 
any of its members came over from Alnwick ? 

Jim Sinclair explained hastily that they had not come to see 
the castle. They merely wished to walk about the ruins and go 
down to the river. Later in the day, perhaps, they would ask 
him to take them over the interior. The custodian withdrew 


276 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


tactfully, surmising it to be a case of a honeymooning couple 
anxious for privacy. 

They passed through the barbican and into the grass-grown 
court surrounded by crumbling walls and flanked by massive 
towers. There were no other visitors to the place that morning, 
for the holiday season had barely commenced. Going through 
an archway they found themselves on a steep grassy bank over- 
hanging the river, on the smooth surface of which were reflected 
the castle and the trees in all the wealth of their summer foliage. 
A bench stood a few paces below them. Sonia walked towards 
it and sank down on it heavily, while Jim remained standing in 
front of her looking at her wonderingly, with an expression of 
impatient anxiety in his eyes. 

“Speak, Sonia,” he exclaimed again. “Anything is better 
than your silence — speak.” 

“ Your uncle, Anthony Cuthbert, has just married, you say ? ” 
she asked, and her voice shook as she spoke. 

“ Yes, and to a compatriot of yours.” 

“Who?” 

“ A widow. Princess del Monte. He knew her years ago 
before she married prince del Monte, and at one time was 
engaged to her. Ah, of course, you are probably a friend or a 
relation of hers. That is why you are at Cuthbertsheugh.” 

“ Until a few days ago, I was princess del Monte.” 

Jim Sinclair stared at her. “ I do not understand,” he said 
slowly. “ What do you mean, Sonia ? ” 

“ Listen ! ” she continued rapidly ; “do not interrupt me. 
Let me speak while I have the strength to speak — while the 
words come to me. If I stop to think, I feel as though I should 
not be able to say the words. Yes; it is true. Until a few 
days ago, I was princess del Monte. Now, I am Mrs. Cuthbert 
— your uncle Anthony Cuthbert’s wife. I should have been 
his wife many years ago. That I was not so was neither his 
fault nor mine. You have known me hitherto as marchesa di 
San Vico. That was my name — my title, and is so still. I 
told you that I had abandoned my husband, and that I had 
refused any longer to bear his title. Well, the man who was 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


277 


my husband in the eyes of the law died. I was free. Your 
uncle, my old lover, knew that I was so, and came to me. I 
had no duty to prince del Monte’s memory — nothing but hatred 
and contempt. Your uncle pressed me to marry him at once, 
and I did so. Now, do you understand why I have come here? 
why it was necessary that I should see you ? ” 

Jim seized her hand roughly. “ Do you know what you 
are saying?” he exclaimed. “Great God! do you know what 
you are saying, or are you mad ? You married Anthony — you ! 
Oh, but it is a lie — a — a — ” He stopped abruptly, covering his 
face with his hands. When he removed them, a face that had 
suddenly grown old gazed at Sonia horror-stricken. The fresh, 
bronzed complexion had turned to an ashy-grey. “ If it is not 
a lie,” he said quietly — and his calmness was far more terrible 
to Sonia than his agitation — “You are a devil, not a woman. 
You married him — Anthony?” and a shudder of disgust shook 
his strong, athletic frame. 

“ Ah, listen ! It is true : I married him. But I did so in 
ignorance. Do you believe that I should have been so un- 
utterably base as to have done so had I known what I only 
knew three days ago? Anthony, your uncle, never alluded to 
you by any other name than Jim. Until three days ago, I 
believed his nephew’s name — your name — to have been Cuth- 
bert, like his own. You never mentioned him to me during 
that time, and naturally, when Anthony wrote to you from 
Rome, you never associated the princess del Monte, whom you 
knew he was about to marry, with the marchesa di San Vico. 
He can never have told you that he found me at Rome no 
longer as princess del Monte, but using my own title. I did 
all I could to be married as marchesa di San Vico; but it 
would not have been legal, since in the eyes of the law I was 
the widow of prince del Monte. Cannot you understand the 
whole miserable, terrible confusion? Can you still credit me 
with a vileness which would be without name? I too might, 
with equal justice, believe that you knew ; and that for some reason 
of your own you kept silence, and allowed Anthony to marry me ! ” 

Jim Sinclair groaned. “My God!” he repeated to himself dully. 


278 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


For the first time she touched him, laying her hand on his 
arm. “ Do you not believe me ? ” she asked piteously. 

Jim shook himself free of her touch. “ I must believe you,” 
he said hoarsely ; “ otherwise, I think I should kill you — here 
— now ! ” 

The words brought a flash of answering spirit into her eyes. 
“ You would be right to do so,” she returned quietly ; “ and 
were I as vile as that, death at your hands would be far too 
light a punishment for me. But I am not. It is because I am 
not that I am here to-day — that I telegraphed, trusting to you 
not to fail to meet me.” 

“To what purpose?” asked Jim bitterly. “To tell me that 
you have ruined my life ; that you have dishonoured me and 
caused me to dishonour myself by allowing me to deal the dead- 
liest outrage a man can deal to another, to one who is a friend 
and a brother to me, to whom I am bound by every tie of affec- 
tion and gratitude ? Was it to tell me this ? Well, you may be 
content. You have made me a cur in my own eyes — a treacher- 
ous cur for whom no honest man could have anything but un- 
speakable contempt.” 

“ Not I,” murmured Sonia brokenly ; “ not I ! I would have 
killed myself sooner than that this should have happened. Am 
I less dishonoured than you ? ” she added bitterly. 

“What does that matter?” Jim Sinclair exclaimed, heedless 
of the brutality of his words. “ What does it signify if you and 
I are dishonoured? It is a slight penalty to pay for what we 
have done! It is Anthony’s honour I am thinking about — 
Anthony, who loved and trusted me, and who believed in you 
enough to return to you and marry you ! No ! I do believe, 
and must believe, that you married him in ignorance of our 
relationship. If I did not believe it, as I say, I think I should 
kill you — and myself too.” 

Sonia was silent for a moment. All her woman’s wits, all her 
quick Southern brain was at work eagerly to seize the point which 
Jim Sinclair’s last words had suggested. 

“ It is for the sake of Anthony’s honour that I am here,” she 
returned, “and for his honour, too, that I brought you here. 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


279 


Mercifully he has gone away till to-morrow — to his Yorkshire 
property. I told him I wished to see Warkworth, and that it 
would amuse me to come quite alone. As soon as I could 
arrange it so as to be certain of coming, I telegraphed to 
you ” 

He looked at her doubtfully, suspiciously. 

“ No ! ” Sonia cried indignantly, interpreting the look. “ Are 
you determined to think me base to the end ? ” 

“You are here without Anthony’s knowledge — or, rather, I 
am here without his knowledge,” Jim returned quickly. “ As 
God is above us, Sonia, I would not play him false, knowingly. 
You have married him, you say — married him when little over 
two months have passed since — since ” 

“ I told him,” interrupted Sonia, in a dull, measured voice. 
“ I concealed nothing.” 

“You told him!” Jim repeated in amazement. Then his 
face darkened. “ It is impossible,” he continued. “ What you 
say is not true — cannot be true. You would imply that Anthony 
— my uncle — knowing of what had passed between you and me, 
still insisted on making you his wife ! ” 

“I told him everything,” said Sonia again. “He understood 
that I had once in my life allowed myself to have a lover, and 
that recently.” 

“ It is impossible,” repeated Jim. 

An angry look flashed from Sonia’s eyes. “ It is not impos- 
sible,” she retorted, “ for it is true. Of course I did not mention 
your name. Even you could hardly suspect me of being so dis- 
honourable as to do that ! and he, naturally, was too much of a 
gentleman to ask it. I wish to God now that he had asked it, 
and that I had told him ! He knew what my life had been — and 
he understood — and forgave. By his own wish the subject was 
never again alluded to between us. All that he asked was that I 
should assure him that no man beside himself had any claim upon 
me now that I was free. I was able to assure him of that. More, I 
was able truly to tell him that the lover I had, had passed altogether 
and completely out of my life — by my own wish. You know the 
conditions I made with you, and which you accepted. I let you go 


28 o 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


away. Did I ever make a sign that I wished you to return to 
me ? Then, a few weeks afterwards, prince del Monte died. I 
had put you deliberately out of my life — for my own sake, and 
for yours. You must think as badly of me as you like for that 
action, and for what preceded it. But I took that action for — 
well, for my own reasons — and Anthony, my husband, knows 
those reasons, for I told them to him. He knows everything — 
except the name of the man whom I made fall in love with me 
and then sent away lest — Do you venture still to tell me that I 
allowed Anthony to marry me without informing him of what I 
considered it to be his right to know, and my duty to tell him, 
before I consented to become his wife ? ” 

Jim shook his head. “No,” he muttered, “if it was like 
that, I cannot accuse you of having deceived him. I say nothing 
as to your treatment of me, neither does that matter.” 

She looked at him quietly. “ You are right,” she replied. 
“ It does not matter, now. What matters is to save Anthony — 
to keep dishonour and misery from him. To protect the name 
of Cuthbert. You must help me to do this. That is why I 
implored you to come here to meet me. Would you have had 
me leave you in ignorance, and allow you to come to Cuthberts- 
heugh ? ” 

“ But Anthony always alluded to you in his letters as Laura. 
Never once has he called you by the name of Sonia.” 

“It was natural. He had always known me by the name of 
Laura. He knows why I dropped it for my second name of 
Sonia. At least, he knows one of my reasons for having done 
so ; but not the chief reason. He thinks I abandoned it only 
because prince del Monte called me by it, at first. I had another 
reason, however. My mother called me by it.” 

“ Your mother ! Was that a reason for dropping it ? ” 

“ The best,” replied Sonia bitterly, and Jim, remembering 
what Anthony Cuthbert had told him concerning princess del 
Monte’s marriage, understood. 

“ I have wronged you,” he said, after a pause. “ I am be- 
ginning to understand now. But the whole thing is horrible — 
horrible ! It is useless to talk about it, since there is no remedy. 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 281 

There is nothing to be done. Show me that there is, and I will 
do it.” 

He spoke simply, with the calmness of utter despair. 

“ You are wrong,” returned Sonia eagerly. “ There is some- 
thing to be done. Indeed, there are two things that can be done, 
one course open to us both, and one course — the only alter- 
native one — open to me, if you refuse to help me to take the 
other. But one or the other must be taken immediately ; and 
there must be no swerving from it.” 

Jim looked at her steadily. “ Tell me,” he said ; “ I am 
powerless, unable to think or to reason.” 

“ I have come to tell you. Either you and I must agree to keep 
our secret — must agree to keep Anthony in perpetual ignorance 
of anything that has passed between us, or — ” and she paused. 

“ Or — what ? ” 

“Or, I must never return to him, and must make it impossible 
that he should ever seek me — or ever know my reasons for — 
putting an end to myself.” 

Jim uttered an exclamation of horror. “ No ! Not that — 
never that ! It would be a fresh crime — a fresh dishonour. 
Besides, it would be useless. Do you suppose that I could keep 
silence, knowing why you had done such a thing ? ” 

“ I think you are right,” said Sonia calmly. “ I have con- 
sidered that alternative deeply, not because I am afraid of putting 
it into effect ; but lest, by doing so, I should be inflicting a still 
greater wrong on Anthony — on my husband. One cannot 
question the dead ; or, rather, one does question them, despair- 
ingly, vainly. But they do not answer. If they did, how many 
fears and doubts, how many hearts quivering under a sense of 
some wrong, which can never more be righted or explained by 
those who wrought it, would be set at rest among the living ! 
Surely the inability of the dead to answer the piteous questions of 
the living, or our inability to hear those answers, is the cruellest 
part of Death ! No — I would not choose that alternative, unless, 
by refusing to assist me in taking the other, you compel me to do 
so. To me, it would be the easier course of the two — far easier 
than the one I propose to take.” 


282 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


“ You would have us pretend that we had never met — that I 
was seeing you for the first time when I come to Cuthbertsheugh ? 
It would be impossible ! Have you thought what it would 
mean? A perpetual lie — the ceaseless playing of a comedy. 
Comedy? — My God! not that, but the bitterest tragedy! I 
could not do it, neither could you. Besides, you do not know 
Anthony, perhaps, in some ways. He would at once see that 
something was amiss. Underneath that careless, easy-going 
manner of his, he is observant of the smallest detail. Nothing 
escapes him, though often he allows people to think that quite 
the reverse is the case.” 

“I have suspected that,” replied Sonia thoughtfully. “You 
are right,” she continued, “ we could not expect to be long under 
the same roof together, and to continue to play the parts we 
should have to play. And yet,” she added, “ those parts must 
be played — either those, or — the other, which I must play 
alone ! ” 

Jim Sinclair looked at her searchingly. Something in her 
marvellous calmness and presence of mind had created in him a 
similar spirit. He could not but admire a courage which seemed 
to communicate itself to him and give him strength to grapple 
with the appalling position into which he found himself plunged. 
If she was sincere, he said to himself, her first and only thought 
was for Anthony; and sincerity rang in every word she had 
uttered — every thought she had sought to put before him. 

“ It is useless,” he said at length. “ I could not live under 
Anthony’s roof under such conditions. You must let me think. 
I must have time to think.” 

“ There is no time. Our decision — yours and mine — must be 
made to-day.” 

“You are thinking only of Anthony?” 

“ Only of him. We have wronged him — unintentionally it is 
true, but the wrong is done. But why need he ever know it? 
We kept our secret well for ourselves : shall we not do so now 
for him ? ” 

“You care for him still, then? You have not married him 
merely because — because ” 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


283 


“ I care for him — yes. I respect him, and I would do all in 
my power to make his life happy, and to show my gratitude to 
him for his loyalty and love for me. I am grateful to him as you 
are grateful. It is because he has told me of your affection for 
each other that I have come to you for help. We two, who have 
wronged him, can at least guard him from the misery of knowing 
that the two people whom he loves most have brought dishonour 
upon him. If we keep silence, neither he nor the world will ever 
know. Ah ! ” she exclaimed suddenly, and paused abruptly. 

“ Sonia ! ” cried Jim, alarmed at her deadly pallor. “ What 
is it — what fresh horror has come into your mind ? ” 

“ I forgot for the moment,” she said faintly. “Yes, there is a 
fresh horror, but I do not know how to tell it you. It is the only 
real danger which threatens us — the only thing which could reveal 
our secret to Anthony and to the world.” 

Jim Sinclair gazed at her in bewilderment. “ Could anything 
be worse than what we know already?” he asked. “Nothing 
that you could tell me now would make things more monstrous 
— more damnable — than they are. Tell me everything. Then, 
perhaps, I shall see my way clearer.” 

“ Can you not guess ? Have you never thought ? Ah ! how 
can I tell you ? and yet you must know it. I myself only realised 
it the same night I discovered your identity. I was not well 
before ; quite accidentally I learned the truth from Anthony’s 
lips, and, when I heard it, for the first time in my life I fainted. 
Mercifully, your uncle was satisfied that I was merely overtired by 
our long journey from Italy, and he left me alone to rest. That 
night, for the first time, I realised why it was that for some little 
time I had occasionally felt quite suddenly unwell ” 

“ The shock,” said Jim, as she paused. “ Surely that was 
enough to account for your fainting.” 

“ I have had many shocks in my life,” returned Sonia, “ and 
I am not one of those women who faint. Surely, surely you can 
guess how it is with me ! ” At last Jim understood. No word 
escaped him, and he remained motionless as though turned into 
stone. 

“ My God ! ” he whispered hoarsely, as though to himself 


284 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


after a silence broken only by the murmur of the river below 
them, and the cries of the jackdaws wheeling round the towers of 
the castle. “ My God ! that , too ! ” 

“ That, too,” re-echoed Sonia \ and for the first time her cour- 
age deserted her, and she burst into a passionate flood of tears. 

The sight unmanned Jim. “ For God’s sake,” he exclaimed, 
“do not break down now, Sonia ! If it is as you say, we will 
face this also — you and I — for Anthony’s sake. Only, the Lord 
only knows how we are to do it. If it is so, that puts an end to 
your suggestion. Not only Anthony, but the whole world will 
know that — that the child could not be his 1 ” 

“ Not necessarily.” 

He looked at her perplexedly. “ Surely — ” he began. 

“ It would be born in February, if all went well,” she said in 
a low voice. “ And by February we, Anthony and I, should have 
been married seven months. He would have no valid reason for 
supposing that the child was not his — neither he nor anybody. 
Such cases are common. No ; the only peril is lest it should be 
born before February — you understand ? ” 

Jim groaned aloud. “ It is horrible ! ” he exclaimed. “ Must 
he be deceived in that also ? Is it to be one never-ending lie, 
perpetuated through all time ? It is too much, Sonia. My mind 
refuses to take it in. Is God a monster that he should punish 
human beings so cruelly for obeying the instincts he implanted 
in them ? And Anthony ! trusting us both, loving you as his 
wife, me as more than any brother ! Ah, it is not you only who 
should put yourself out of the world, but both of us ! ” 

“ Yes, if we were to think only of ourselves ; but we have to 
think of him. Would you bring such grief and such dishonour 
to him, so long as there remained any other way open to you ? 
Our punishment remains the same. Is it a light punishment to 
be condemned perpetually to deceive one whom you reverence, 
and who was fast making you learn to love him ; to know yourself 
unworthy of his love and confidence, not because you would 
willingly betray them, but because a hideous combination of 
circumstances forced you to protect him from the effects of a 
wrong done against him in ignorance ? Ah, I cannot explain as 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


285 

I would ; but to save him from the crushing unhappiness that 
must otherwise come to him, I would risk everything — I would 
feign, and deceive, and do violence to my own feelings every day, 
and every hour of the day, for the rest of my life ! After all, I 
should be doing it for him, out of gratitude for all he has done 
for me. And some day, if anything at all of what we are told to 
believe is true, and not a fable invented by humanity to cover up 
its own hopelessness and console its own misery, he will know 
and understand the motives which caused those he loved and 
trusted to deceive him.” 

“ But to make him believe that a child is his, when it is — ” Jim 
shuddered. “ It is too horrible, too cruel to think of,” he added. 

“ And yet,” said Sonia, “ there is no other way. That is 
what I meant when I said that there must be no swerving from 
the course we decided to take. It must be followed inexorably — 
to its end, whatever that end may be.” Jim remained buried in 
thought, his eyes fixed on the gliding water below. A party of 
holiday-makers rowed up the river on their way to the Hermitage, 
and their laughter echoed against the walls of the castle beneath 
which he and Sonia were sitting. 

At last Jim spoke, quietly and decidedly. “ I believe you 
are right,” he said. “ I suspected the sincerity of your motives 
at first, but now I believe that you are suggesting what you 
honestly think would be our only means of saving Anthony from 
a blow which I verily believe would kill him, and which in any 
case would wreck the remainder of his life. I will help you to 
take the course you have suggested, Sonia; but it is a course 
which each of us must take alone, holding no communication 
with each other, and never seeing each other again.” 

Sonia looked at him quickly. “ But how can * we do that ? ” 
she asked. “ You must be often at Cuthbertsheugh ” 

“ I shall never see Cuthbertsheugh again probably. The 
course you have pointed out is a hard one, but it is just, in 
so far as it brings with it a sufficiently severe punishment — to 
both of us. Unluckily, Anthony must still suffer, and it will be 
from me that his suffering will come. That, too, is just, though 
I wish it could have been avoided.” 


286 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


Sonia started. “ What do you mean ? ” she exclaimed. 
“ Surely you are not thinking of — of that other alternative ? 
That was for myself alone. You cannot desert Anthony. I 
do not understand what it is you are thinking of.” 

“ This,” replied Jim briefly. “ I will not go back to Cuth- 
bertsheugh. You and I under that roof together would be — 
unthinkable ! Do not be alarmed, Sonia. I am not contemplat- 
ing putting myself out of the world — the Deity must take that re- 
sponsibility on himself at his own time — but I am contemplating 
putting myself out of Anthony’s life. How? I do not know 
— yet. The world is a big place, and I shall find something to 
do in it. Very fortunately, when I was last at Cuthbertsheugh, 
Anthony, with his usual acuteness, immediately detected that I 
was — well, not my usual self. He was hurt that I did not con- 
fide in him, thinking that I was in some scrape, or that I was 
perhaps hard up for money. I shall let him think that he was 
right — and that the scrape has been of such a nature as to make 
it necessary for me to leave England — and my regiment. It will 
be a blow to him — a terrible blow, I am afraid, but at least it 
will not be as terrible as the other. You are his wife, and you 
must go back to him. You will hear me abused, and you will 
have to watch Anthony’s sorrow and disappointment, without 
being able to say a word to lessen them, or to justify me. That 
will be a part of your punishment. Mine, you may imagine, will 
not be any lighter to bear. I shall send in my papers — you 
know what that means — leaving the army. Then I shall go 
abroad, to India probably. There is fighting going on in Afghan- 
istan, and I may as well be doing something useful there, as not, 
if I can get taken on in some Indian regiment. I may exchange, 
and not resign from the army. I don’t know. I have not even 
thought of details. But, whatever I do, Anthony will not know 
of it till it is done, and until I am out of England. Then I shall 
write to him, and I shall give him to understand that I have gone 
away to avoid the consequences of a scrape which he already 
suspects I have lately got into. I’m afraid he will naturally think 
it is something dishonourable — and so will everybody else — but 
that cannot be helped. It would be far more dishonourable of 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


287 


me to stay, and to go to Cuthbertsheugh as though nothing had 
happened. I could not do it. The — the child, too ! Are you 
sure you are not mistaken ? Sonia ! I hope to God it will 
die!” 

She looked at him long and earnestly. “You would do 
this?” she said presently — “you would sacrifice your prospects 
— your career — to save Anthony ? ” 

“Yes. Why not? It seems to me that it is the only thing 
left for me to do. At least I shall have the satisfaction of 
knowing that I am doing what I believe to be the best for him.” 

“You could go to him, and tell him the truth. You could 
tell him that I seduced you. It would be true. He would 
forgive you. You and he might continue to live your lives as 
though I had never come into them to ruin them.” 

“ I could do this, perhaps, if I did not happen to be what 
I am,” returned Jim. “ It would be the act of a cad. Do you 
suppose that I would betray your confidence, or that of any 
woman — even to Anthony ? What would he think of me — and 
what should I think of myself? Besides, even were it possible 
for me to do such a thing, why should I seek to right myself in 
Anthony’s eyes, and leave you to suffer alone? You were as 
innocent as I of any intention to wrong him. No, Sonia, we 
must both pay the penalty ; you in your way, and I in mine — 
and though we shall never see one another again, we shall know 
that in our different ways we are acting together to attain the 
same object.” 

“ But you — you ! ” she exclaimed ; “ you are taking a double 
burden upon yourself. You are consenting to allow both Anthony 
and the world to imagine that you have done something dis- 
graceful — something which had obliged you to leave your 
country.” Sonia stopped suddenly, and a low sob escaped her. 

Her own eagerness and determination to shield Anthony 
were as nothing compared with the sacrifice his nephew was 
prepared to make. It seemed to her that she and Jim had 
changed places, and that it was he who was calmly pointing her 
out the way to attain their common object, utterly regardless of 
all that it would entail upon himself. 


288 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


Jim laughed bitterly. “I am a man,” he replied, “I can 
stand a double burden. You will find your own quite heavy 
enough. You are too frank and plain-spoken — too honest, I 
think — to be able to endure the thought that your life must be 
spent in seeking to deceive your husband, and that husband 
Anthony! And not the least painful part of your burden will 
be the knowledge that you are compelled to encourage him in 
thinking badly of me — in allowing him to feel that I have 
abused his affection and his generosity, and returned his con- 
fidence with ingratitude. You will have to do this — and I do 
not think it will be a congenial task to you. You will find 
one supporter in the family, my aunt Jane, Anthony’s sister. 
She has never liked me, and she was jealous of Anthony’s affec- 
tion for me. You have made her acquaintance, I dare say?” 

“ Yes,” answered Sonia, and then she suddenly turned to 
him with a look of gratitude in her eyes which were full of tears. 
“ At last,” she said, “ at last you have understood me. It is 
something to know that you understand and trust me — that you 
will realise that what I am doing is being done for Anthony’s 
sake, and from no other motive. I thank you. The knowledge 
that you trust me will always help me to bear my burden, how- 
ever heavy it may become. Ah ! but what I shrink from is the 
disloyalty, the treachery to you l This, and the feeling that 
while Anthony is grieving over your supposed misconduct, and 
over your supposed ingratitude to him, I shall be able to say no 
word to lessen his sorrow. It will be the hardest part of my 
punishment.” 

“ It must be endured like the rest,” Jim Sinclair said quietly. 
“ The more I think over the whole position,” he continued, “ the 
more convinced I am that there is no other way — I do not say to 
remedy it, for nothing can do that— but at least to ensure things 
remaining as they are. Whether you will be able to continue for 
any length of time to deceive Anthony, I do not know. Your 
hardest trial will commence after — after the child is born, Sonia ! ” 

“Do not speak of it!” she said, shuddering. “At least 
there are some months before that will happen — unless—” and 
she paused. 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


289 

Jim looked at his watch. The sun was shining full on the 
old castle, every outline of which was now reflected on the waters 
of the Coquet as if in a mirror. “ Do you know that it is nearly 
three o’clock ? ” he said ; “ and, good Heavens, Sonia, you must 
be starving ! You have brought nothing with you from Cuthberts- 
heugh ? ” 

Sonia shook her head. “I could not eat anything,” she 
replied. “ Perhaps, before I return to the station, I will get some 
tea at the hotel I passed just before turning up to the castle. 
Nobody will know me there.” 

“Or me,” returned Jim. “I have only once been here 
before, and that was out hunting. But you must eat some- 
thing,” he insisted, looking at Sonia. “ You are shockingly pale — 
and though you do not realise it, you are exhausted and need 
food. Come, let us go to the inn. You may be quite sure 
that nobody will recognise us. What time does your train go ? ” 

“ Not till nearly six.” 

“ Then you must have something to eat, and rest at the inn 
afterwards. I shall not come to the station with you. Some 
one might be in the train who knew me by sight.” 

“ And you — where shall you go, afterwards ? ” 

“To Newcastle, by a later train ; and from there to London 
by the night express. I sent my servant and luggage on to 
Newcastle direct from Edinburgh yesterday. He has orders to 
wait for me there until I telegraph to him. In London I shall 
see my way more clearly. Of course Anthony must always 
remain under the impression that I am still in Scotland. Luckily 
there are nearly three weeks yet before he expects me at Cuthberts- 
heugh, and long before that time I shall be out of England. In 
two hours, Sonia, it must be good-bye.” 

The irony of the position struck him as he spoke. He had 
hastened from Scotland on the receipt of her telegram, fondly 
imagining that she wished him to return to her. A few short 
hours ago nothing would have given him greater joy than to feel 
that he was to pass even a few days with her. Now, he longed 
for the hour to arrive when he and she would have to part; 
never, as he hoped, to meet again in this world. 

10 


290 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


They left the river banks and walked slowly across the green- 
sward below the keep of the castle and out by the barbican gate- 
way. The custodian was occupied in taking a party over the 
ruins, and he scarcely noticed them as they passed. The tourists 
were questioning him not on matters of historical interest con- 
nected with the place, but on details connected with the domestic 
life of the actual representatives of Hotspur, and of that Earl of 
Northumberland who addressed from Warkworth a letter to the 
sovereign against whom he had rebelled ; written, as he explained 
to the King, by the light of his burning villages. 

Arrived at the hotel, Jim insisted on ordering some tea for 
Sonia. There was but one solitary occupant of the coffee-room — 
a young man horsily attired, who stared at both of them as they 
entered, but more particularly at Jim. Sonia drank her tea and 
forced herself to eat some toast, but scarcely a word passed 
between them. Presently she got up restlessly. “It is suffocat- 
ing in this room,” she said. “ Let us go out again until it is time 
for me to go to the station. It was better there by the river.” 
They made their way down to the ancient bridge, and leaning 
over its worn parapet watched without heeding the clear, brown 
waters of Coquet gliding beneath its arches to the sea. Each of 
them felt that all had been said between them which ever could 
be said — and that in the future their paths lay apart, one common 
action alone remaining to unite their lives. The church clock 
near by struck slowly and sleepily four, and then five. 

“You must not walk to the station,” Jim said. “We had 
better return to the inn, and I will order a carriage to take you 
there.” 

It was all very prosaic. The supreme moments in life are 
apt to be so to an altogether unexpected degree. At the hotel 
Jim ordered the carriage, which presently came round to the 
door. The young man whom they had left in the coffee-room 
was looking out of the window, picking his teeth. Jim Sinclair 
assisted Sonia to get into the vehicle. 

“ There is nothing more to be said,” he remarked, taking off 
his hat, and holding out his hand to her. “ We both of us under- 
stand what we have to do.” 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


291 


“ No,” she repeated dully ; “ there is nothing more to be said. 
We both understand.” And she held his hand for an instant in 
her own. The carriage drove away, leaving a trail of dust 
behind it as it passed down the hill along the village street. 

Jim watched it until it disappeared. Then he passed his 
hand across his face, and walked quickly away in the opposite 
direction. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


EARLY a fortnight had passed since Sonia’s excursion 



IN to Warkworth. “The county,” at least such of it as 
was within calling distance of Cuthbertsheugh, had called upon 
Anthony Cuthbert’s new wife, and had done so, indeed, with 
alacrity. Mrs. Wilson of Heiferlaw Tower had in the first 
instance acted with that reserve and caution which she felt it 
to be necessary to assume under the circumstances. Anthony 
Cuthbert, as everybody knew, had for some years laid himself 
open to conjectures of a doubtful character being formed con- 
cerning his private life. It was all the more incumbent, there- 
fore, upon the ladies representing society in the county — of whom 
Mrs. Wilson regarded herself as being by no means the least 
prominent — to exercise due discretion before admitting to their 
circle the foreign wife whom the owner of Cuthbertsheugh had so 
unexpectedly imported into Northumberland. 

On reading the announcement of the marriage in the papers, 
Mrs. Wilson had immediately taken pen in hand and written to 
a great lady in the county to inquire whether, in her opinion, 
Mr. Cuthbert’s marriage was all that it should be, and whether 
this princess del Monte was “received” in her own country. 
The great lady’s reply, written from London, had been en- 
tirely satisfactory, perhaps a little too much so not to cause 
Mrs. Wilson a slight sense of disappointment. It appeared 
that the personage in question had happened, quite fortuitously, 
of course, to meet the Italian ambassador, and that she had 
naturally asked him for some particulars concerning the lady 
Mr. Cuthbert had married. The ambassador had assured her 
that though he had never known princess del Monte personally, 
he knew all about her. Her father, the duke of Carmagnano, 
had been the last direct representative of an ancient family, and 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


293 


his wife, princess del Monte’s mother, had been, well, a famous 
beauty in her day. There had never been a word against a lady 
who, he understood, had recently married an English gentleman 
of large fortune. Her first husband, del Monte, had been a 
maavais sujet, and people had blamed the duchessa di Carmag- 
nano very much for allowing the marriage. It was true that 
princess del Monte had lived apart from her husband ; but there 
had been nothing in the nature of a legal separation, and in 
Italian society generally it was perfectly well known that no 
fault whatever could be attached to her in the matter. To be 
sure, her second marriage, immediately after del Monte’s death, 
had surprised Italian society, and shocked a certain number of 
people; but really, del Monte had been proved to be such a 
scoundrel, and the facts relating to her marriage to him when 
she was quite a girl were so unpleasant, that he, the ambassador, 
rather admired her courage in not making any pretence of going 
into mourning for him. 

Mrs. Wilson had lost no time in making all whom it might 
concern acquainted with the contents of her correspondent’s 
letter ; and since it was evident that the necessary nihil obstat had 
been pronounced in high quarters, the neighbourhood hastened 
to call at Cuthbertsheugh accordingly. In the meantime Miss 
Cuthbert had been sedulous in singing her sister-in-law’s praises. 
It was an immense relief to her mind, she declared to her friends 
and acquaintances, that her brother had married a lady. She 
had always dreaded lest he might become the victim of some ad- 
venturess. Of course it was most unfortunate that he should have 
married a foreigner, and still more so that this foreigner should 
be a Romanist, but with Anthony’s peculiar ideas something 
deplorable of the kind was bound to happen in time. At any 
rate her sister-in-law was a good-looking, well-bred woman, with 
charming manners, and apparently of an amiable disposition, 
who spoke English quite fluently, although she had evidently 
learned the language from servants and was, therefore, not quite 
at home with her h’s. As to her unfortunate creed, Miss 
Cuthbert was of opinion that in time “Soneyer,” as she called 
her, would learn to recognise its shocking errors, as she was 


294 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


evidently an intelligent person, and appeared to be, for a foreigner, 
quite well educated. 

The impression which Mrs. Cuthbert produced was every- 
where a good one ; and people began to say that Anthony Cuthbert 
had on the whole been lucky in his choice. There were not 
wanting, naturally enough, mothers with eligible daughters who 
had been out in the world for some seasons, who deplored the 
fact that the possessor of Cuthbertsheugh should not have made 
that choice nearer home. 

Anthony himself was delighted at the cordiality with which 
his wife was received by his friends and neighbours. He 
was grateful, too, for the loyal way in which his sister had ranged 
herself on the side of the new-comer. Miss Cuthbert’s visit for 
the week-end had extended itself over several days longer than 
either she or Anthony had anticipated, and that it had done so was 
due to Sonia’s insistence that her sister-in-law should not return 
to her own house a day sooner than her engagements obliged 
her to do. Jane Cuthbert had been more than gratified and 
pleased by the attention shown her by Sonia, as well as by the 
deference with which her advice and suggestions as to house- 
keeping matters at Cuthbertsheugh had been received by its new 
mistress. Anthony, indeed, was not a little astonished at the 
friendliness which had so quickly sprung up between the two 
women who differed to such a remarkable degree in character, 
habits, and traditions. He had duly hinted to Sonia that it 
would be at least diplomatic on her part to pretend not to notice his 
sister’s peculiarities ; and he had warned her of Jane’s devotion to 
Cuthbertsheugh and of her inability to forget that she had for so 
long been its virtual mistress. He had expected that his wife 
would take refuge in a kindly and courteous indifference ; and 
that Jane, though no doubt she would support Sonia in public 
from a sense of family loyalty, would in private limit herself to a 
position of armed neutrality. It had amused him during the few 
days of his sister’s visit, to see Sonia deliberately laying herself 
out to conquer her prejudices and break down her reserve, 
and he wondered at the rapidity with which Jane laid aside her 
arms, or at least refrained from using them. 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


295 


A few people in the county had shaken their heads and pro- 
fessed strong disapproval of the new Mrs. Cuthbert’s conduct in 
not having allowed, at all events, a decent time to elapse between 
her first husband’s death and her second marriage, and had called 
on Miss Cuthbert for the purpose of expressing this disapproval, 
convinced that she would agree with them. Jane Cuthbert, 
however, had done nothing of the kind. Like Mrs. Wilson of 
Heiferlaw Tower, she had already ascertained views obtaining in 
authoritative social quarters on this subject, and was able to 
assure her visitors that the case was altogether an exceptional 
one, and that the less said about her sister-in-law’s first husband 
the better. Princess del Monte, she explained to them, had 
many years ago refused to live with her husband. Indeed, the 
marriage had been one in name only, and prince del Monte’s 
subsequent conduct had entirely justified his wife in abandoning 
him. In England, of course, she could have at once obtained her 
divorce; but as divorce did not exist in her country, she had 
taken the only steps left to her to rid herself of an altogether 
objectionable person, and it would have been sheer hypocrisy on 
her part to have pretended to mourn for an event which left 
her free to marry again without compromising herself in the eyes 
of the world. Of course, nothing could be more deplorable than 
the fact that her brother had married a Romanist; and she, Jane 
Cuthbert, felt the blow deeply. Nevertheless, she was thankful 
to say that her sister-in-law did not appear to be a bigoted 
person ; and when, in due course, an heir should be bom to 
Cuthbertsheugh, she had great hopes that Mrs. Cuthbert would 
recognise the necessity of the child being brought up as a good, 
sound Protestant, if, indeed, she had not by that time been 
vouchsafed sufficient light to renounce the errors of Romanism 
and become a Protestant herself. “You may be sure,” Miss 
Cuthbert told her friends, “ that I shall do my best to lead her to 
realise how utterly opposed to Scripture are the claims of Rome. 
But, of course, in the case of foreigners, one must always re- 
member that they are not properly educated as we are, and that 
one must treat them as children, when serious matters are con- 
cerned. For the present, it will be best to say nothing. But in 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


296 

course of time, when my sister-in-law has seen more of our ways 
in England, and learned to appreciate the inestimable blessing 
we possess in having been given the Bible as our one and in- 
fallible guide, I shall endeavour gradually to instruct her on these 
subjects. But the ground must be prepared first before it can 
receive the good seed,” Miss Cuthbert had concluded impressively. 

It had been largely owing to Jane Cuthbert’s attitude if those 
who had been inclined to suggest that the new Mrs. Cuthbert 
could not be a very nice person, as she had married again in 
such unseemly haste, had been reduced to silence. Probably, 
however, even Miss Cuthbert’s support would not have been 
altogether sufficient to prevent the formation of a clique hostile 
to the new mistress of Cuthbertsheugh had it not been for the 
graceful tact displayed by Sonia herself. Her manner to all 
classes of the community had been such as to disarm criticism ; 
and, to Anthony Cuthbert’s great satisfaction, it became evident 
that his wife was rapidly becoming popular in the county. He 
had not expected that Sonia would have been so ready to go into 
the local society and to open the doors of Cuthbertsheugh to 
that society in return. To his surprise, however, she evinced an 
almost childish eagerness to accept the various invitations which 
began to arrive at Cuthbertsheugh from all parts of the neigh- 
bourhood, and even from more distant parts of Northumberland. 
People who had never given garden-parties before suddenly 
declared that it was a waste of so unusually fine a summer not to 
do so that year, and when an invitation to one of these functions 
had been accepted by the newly married couple at Cuthbertsheugh, 
the fact became known far and wide. Guests who would other- 
wise have pleaded distance as an excuse for being unable to be 
present accepted invitations with alacrity, for those who had 
already met Mrs. Cuthbert of Cuthbertsheugh wished to see 
more of her, while those who had not yet made her acquaintance 
were longing to do so. Sonia insisted on going everywhere. 
She declared to Anthony that she wished to be known, and to 
know everybody ; and not only did she insist on his taking her 
wherever they were asked to go, but she seemed to be equally 
anxious to entertain as much as possible at Cuthbertsheugh 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


297 


itself. Anthony was quite ready to humour her in both ways. 
No doubt, he told himself, this anxiety to see new people and to 
be seen by them was the natural reaction after the very retired 
and lonely life his wife had elected to lead during recent years. 
Provincial society had not any very great attractions for him. 
He would have preferred to fill Cuthbertsheugh with his own 
friends, who belonged to the cosmopolitan world to which he 
had for so long been accustomed, and in which he felt more 
at home than he did with his country neighbours. Under the 
circumstances, however, there could be no question as to his wife 
being right in wishing to be civil and friendly in the county 
generally; and it would not only have been churlish, but also 
very unwise not to repay all the cordiality and civility which had 
been shown to both of them since their arrival at Cuthbertsheugh. 
Many women, he said to himself, in his wife’s position would 
have been either shy or bored at finding herself in a social atmos- 
phere differing so completely from that in which they had been 
brought up, and would have made no effort to place themselves 
in touch and in sympathy with their new surroundings. Laura, 
however, — he always thought of her as Laura, though he had 
schooled himself to call her by the name she preferred — had 
shown that she was determined to rise above such feminine 
weaknesses, and that she was resolved to do all that was right 
and proper as his wife. A greater proof of her affection for him 
she could scarcely have given ; and, therefore, far from attempting 
to restrain her social efforts, he did all in his power to second 
them. 

Probably one of the happiest moments in Anthony Cuthbert’s 
life was that in which, about a fortnight after their arrival at 
Cuthbertsheugh, he had brought Sonia a letter he had received 
from the avvocato Sangiorgi in which the lawyer informed him 
that all the claims for arrears of interest on the mortgages placed 
by prince del Monte on her estates in Tuscany had been settled, 
and that there was consequently no further question of either 
San Vico or any other portion of those estates having to be sold 
on behalf of creditors. 

He had never told his wife the precise nature of the instruc- 


298 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


tions he had given her man of business ; but had merely informed 
her that Sangiorgi was in process of devising a scheme by which 
her property would gradually be freed from all incumbrances. 

Sonia, after reading the lawyer’s letter and the documents he 
enclosed, suddenly grew pale, and trembled violently. 

“ What is the matter ? ” exclaimed Anthony tenderly. “ Why 
are you upset, Sonia? Surely there is nothing in Sangiorgi’s 
letter, or in these papers to upset you ! You see, you need 
never worry yourself any more about San Vico having to be sold. 
All the interest on the mortgages has been paid up to date — 
and in course of time we shall pay off the mortgages themselves 
— and then your Tuscan property will be absolutely free of any 
debt. Do you not understand, dear ? ” 

“I understand,” answered Sonia in a broken voice. “Of 
course I understand ! You have done this with your money.” 

“ Our money ! ” interrupted Anthony. 

“ It would have been better to let San Vico be sold ! ” she 
exclaimed passionately. “ I am not worthy of your love for 
me, Anthony ! Do you understand ? I am not worthy of it.” 

Anthony Cuthbert smiled. “ I am the best judge of that, 
carissima ! ” he replied gently. “ Do you suppose that I should 
have allowed San Vico to be sold, if I could prevent it ? No, 
we shall return to San Vico in the spring, you and I, and you 
will have the satisfaction of feeling that the place will remain 
in your possession, and in the possession of those who may come 
after us.” 

Sonia did not reply. She rose from the chair in which she 
had been sitting, and walked restlessly up and down the room. 
Every fresh proof of Anthony’s love for her struck like a knife 
into her heart. There were moments when she longed to tell 
him everything — to throw herself on his mercy and generosity, 
and beg him to do with her what he would. If her lover had 
been anybody else in the wide world than Jim Sinclair, she told 
herself despairingly, she would have done so long before now. 
He, Anthony, had understood how it had come about that she 
finally succumbed to the imperious demands of her nature, and 
allowed herself to yield to them. She could have told him all ; 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


299 


even that one thing which, though he must have known she 
intended to imply it, he had refused to allow her to put into 
words. But how could she confess to him the truth as she 
now knew it? No man’s generosity, no man’s cynicism, even, 
would be proof against such a revelation. It was moments like 
these she dreaded — moments when she was alone with Anthony 
and learned ever more fully the breadth and generosity of his 
character, and the loyalty of which he was capable when once 
he had given his trust and affection. To this generosity and to 
this loyalty she knew that her own nature was fully competent 
to respond. Nay, she knew that all that was best in her did 
respond to it, and writhed under the consciousness that she 
was compelled to deceive where deception, always repugnant 
to her, became abhorrent in its perfidy. So long as she was 
in the presence of strangers, it was easier to play the part she 
had undertaken. During the first years after her marriage to 
prince del Monte she had trained herself to disguise her feelings 
from the world; but even then she had found it necessary to 
be constantly in the world in order to do so with any satisfaction 
to herself. In those days, moreover, her object in playing her 
part, and the circumstances leading her to assume it, had been 
wholly different. Then, she had the satisfaction of feeling that 
she was at the same time soothing her outraged pride, and 
placing a husband she despised and loathed in a contemptible 
position. Now, there was no satisfaction; but only the ever- 
increasing bitterness of feeling that each day and hour of her 
life must be spent in hiding a hideous truth from the man to 
whom she was daily learning more and more to be grateful for 
his chivalrous and devoted love — a love which she was rapidly 
becoming conscious that, were it not for the fatal and insuperable 
barrier that a well-nigh incredible combination of circumstances 
had raised between them, her heart was ready fully and entirely 
to return. Perpetually to make the acquaintance of strangers ; 
to sit at the end of the long dinner-table at Cuthbertsheugh, 
almost hidden from Anthony’s sight by the profusion of flowers 
and centre-pieces of plate which adorned it on nights when 
they had guests dining with them, and exerting herself to act 


300 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


the part of hostess at Cuthbertsheugh to her husband’s satis- 
faction and that of his county neighbours ; these formed the 
temporary respites from the dull, despairing pain that was for 
ever gnawing at Sonia’s heart. Such moments merely acted as 
an anodyne, however. The pain, and the black, threatening 
shadow lying behind it, were always there ; though nobody who 
met Mrs. Cuthbert for the first time, or who saw her engaged 
in entertaining her husband’s and her own guests at Cuthberts- 
heugh, ever guessed at the existence of any skeleton, or of any 
cupboard in which a skeleton was hidden. 

The days passed ; August had come ; and Anthony began to 
express surprise that his nephew had not again written since the 
letter he had received from him the day following their arrival 
at Cuthbertsheugh. He was not, however, uneasy at Jim’s 
silence, and accounted for it by observing that no doubt he 
was too busy fishing, and otherwise amusing himself in Scotland 
to trouble his head with letter-writing — the more so as he knew 
he would be so soon returning to Cuthbertsheugh. Sonia 
looked forward with a sickening dread to the inevitable day, 
which could not now be long delayed, when Anthony should 
get a letter telling him that Jim Sinclair had left England. 
What, she asked herself despairingly, would Jim say in that 
letter — what could he say? Another week went by, and still 
no word came from him. Anthony Cuthbert at last became 
uneasy at his nephew’s prolonged silence. “If this afternoon’s 
post does not bring me a letter from Jim,” he said one day at 
luncheon, “ I shall telegraph to the young villain. I only hope 
he isn’t ill. He had a bad attack of fever in India, and a slight 
return of it while he was at Malta. It is extraordinary how 
long it takes to get those malarial fevers out of the system.” 
Sonia was silent. She tried to pretend to eat, but each mouth- 
ful seemed as though it would choke her. 

The post that afternoon brought no letter from Jim, but it 
did bring letters addressed to him to the lodge at which he was 
staying in Strathcarron. These letters had been forwarded back 
to Cuthbertsheugh ; and when Anthony saw them he uttered a 
slight exclamation of astonishment. Evidently Jim had left 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


301 

Scotland, or at any rate he had left his friend’s shooting-lodge in 
Ross-shire. It was strange that he should have done so on the 
very eve of the twelfth, since he had been particularly invited to 
remain for the opening days of the grouse-shooting ; and it was 
even stranger that he should not have written to Cuthbertsheugh 
announcing his change of plans. 

“ Perhaps Jim means to give us another surprise,” Anthony 
said to his wife, smiling. “Very likely he will turn up here with- 
out warning us of his arrival.” He tried to speak lightly, but 
Sonia knew that he was both perplexed and uneasy. 

Two more days passed, and Anthony was on the point of 
telegraphing to the house where Jim had been staying in Scotland 
to ask when he had left, and if it was known where he had gone. 
By this time he had become seriously alarmed, and feared lest 
some accident had befallen his nephew. It was Sunday, and on 
that day there was no postal delivery at Cuthbertsheugh, the 
letters for the district being distributed at the post-office after 
the morning service in the church to those who chose to call or 
send for their correspondence. Anthony awaited with anxiety 
the return from church of the members of the Cuthbertsheugh 
household who had attended it, and who would bring the post- 
bag back with them. 

“ At last ! ” he exclaimed, as, on glancing at the pile of letters 
brought to him in his study he saw that the envelope lying upper- 
most was addressed in Jim’s handwriting. A second glance 
brought forth an ejaculation of astonishment and dismay, for 
the envelope bore a foreign stamp and postmark. Anthony 
examined the postmark hastily, and to his amazement saw that 
it was that of Marseille. 

“ Marseille ! ” he exclaimed. “ What in the world can have 
taken the boy off to Marseille ? ” 

He tore the letter open and glanced down the first page 
eagerly. Then he suddenly laid the letter down on the table in 
front of him and stood staring at it with a dull, vacant expression 
on his face. “ Impossible ! ” he muttered to himself. “ Im- 
possible ! There must be some mistake — some — some mis- 
understanding.” 


302 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


He took the letter up again, and forced himself to read it 
through to the end. It was very short ; and its phraseology was 
abrupt and cold almost to callousness. 

“ Dear Anthony, — You will remember that when I was last 
with you at Cuthbertsheugh before your marriage I told you I 
was worried about a certain matter concerning which I was bound 
to keep silence. You suspected that I had got myself into some 
kind of scrape. You were quite right, I had. Unluckily the 
scrape is a serious one, or would become so were I to remain in 
England. I must clear out, both out of my regiment and out of 
the country, until things have blown over, if they ever do ! I 
can’t go into details, and the best thing you can do is to forget 
all about me. Fortunately your marriage, and the new life which 
it will bring with it for you, will probably help you to do this 
quickly enough. It will be quite useless to write to me, for I 
should not get your letters, and you will not hear from me again, 
at any rate not for a long time. By the time you receive this 
letter I shall be far away from England, as I have purposely 
made all my arrangements and left the country before writing to 
you. I must trust to you not to attempt to discover the nature 
of the scrape I have got into. You will learn it in due time. 
Absolute silence on the subject is the only thing that can now 
save me from being found out. The only thing, therefore, that 
I ask of you is to forget me as quickly as you can, and above all, 
not to try to discover what I have done to necessitate my leaving 
England. I have realised a considerable portion of my capital, 
which I have with me, so I shall not starve ! I have done so in 
order to avoid any risk of your tracing my whereabouts through 
bankers or lawyers.” 

Anthony Cuthbert struck the table with his fist. “ It is not 
true ! ” he exclaimed passionately. “ The boy has never done 
anything dishonourable ! ” He was unconscious that he spoke 
the words aloud. He looked round the room hastily, startled 
at the sound of a voice he did not recognise as his own. His 
glance was arrested by the Meleager. The frank, open face of 
the statue — Jim’s face — seemed to be gazing at him eagerly and 
proudly, as though mutely striving to confirm his words. The 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


3°3 


first shock over, Anthony forced himself to be calm. He sat 
down at his writing-table, and, spreading the letter before him, 
read its contents through several times quietly and judicially. 
He recalled to his memory every detail connected with Jim’s 
depressed state when he had been last at Cuthbertsheugh. It 
had been evident then that something was weighing on the boy’s 
mind ; but Anthony, who had watched him narrowly, had always 
felt convinced that nothing more serious than some love affair, 
or perhaps some money difficulty, was the cause of his depres- 
sion. Moreover, Jim himself had ended by openly confessing 
that he was troubled about something, and had given him to 
understand that, though he would gladly have confided in him, 
he was prevented by a sense of honour from doing so. There 
had been absolutely nothing in Jim’s manner when he alluded 
to his trouble which had in the faintest degree suggested that he 
was ashamed of it. Indeed, quite the reverse had been the case. 
How was it possible, then, for this mysterious trouble suddenly 
to have assumed such proportions as to have compelled the boy 
to send in his papers and fly the country — which his letter inti- 
mated that he had been compelled to do? Anthony’s mind 
worked quickly enough at all times, and perhaps never more 
quickly than when he found himself confronted by some diffi- 
culty, or by some problem which puzzled him. He read Jim’s 
letter yet again, dwelling on every word and every phrase of it, 
and something told him that the letter did not ring true. It 
was too restrained, too guarded, to be natural to the writer ; 
moreover, it was too well expressed to be spontaneous, and bore 
evident traces of having been composed with a deliberation 
unlikely to be employed by any one writing under the stress of 
great mental agitation. Anthony sat plunged in thought, with 
the letter lying before him. His first impulse had been to take 
immediate action of some kind ; but what precise action to take 
he could not decide. He felt as though the ground had been 
cut away from under his feet, and that Jim had left him no 
basis for action. He looked at the date on the postmark of the 
envelope, and saw that it was three days since the letter had 
been posted at Marseille. By this time the boy would be not 


3°4 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


only out of France, but out of Europe and probably on the 
high seas; since he would scarcely have gone to Marseille had 
he not contemplated embarking on some steamer no doubt 
bound for the East, or for Australia. During those first moments 
of thought, Anthony Cuthbert almost forgot to attempt to fathom 
the cause which had impelled Jim to flight. That seemed to 
be a secondary matter in comparison with the fact of his having 
fled without a word of explanation or of warning, having appa- 
rently taken every precaution he could think of to evade any 
discovery as to his eventual destination. It was only by degrees 
that he realised how grave must be the nature of the trouble his 
nephew was in to have caused him even to contemplate the idea 
of taking such a step, and still less to have put the idea into 
such prompt and rapid action. And when by degrees he did 
realise it, his face glowed with indignation — not indignation 
against the self-accused culprit, but anger that Jim should have 
believed that anything short of absolute, damning proof should 
make him, Anthony, believe him to have been guilty of a 
dishonourable action. 

“It is impossible!” he said to himself again; “simply 
impossible. I would more easily believe that I had committed 
some base action than that Jim had done so. There is some 
mystery behind all this. I should not wonder if the boy had 
taken somebody else’s guilt on his own shoulders — if guilt 
there is. Or it is some folly — some sudden resolution taken 
in a fit of despondency. Probably some damned woman is, 
and has been, at the bottom of the whole thing. She may have 
persuaded him to bolt with her. Yes, by God — I never thought 
of that ! ” 

The opening of the’ door of his study roused Anthony from 
his train of thoughts. He looked up quickly, to see his wife 
entering the room. A single glance at his face was sufficient 
to tell Sonia that the blow had fallen. 

“You have had bad news,” she said to him quickly — and 
there was no note of interrogation in her voice. 

Anthony held out the letter to her in silence. 

She read it through slowly and attentively, and her hand 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


305 


shook as she replaced it on the table in front of him. The 
moment had come which she had been dreading, and yet which 
she knew must be confronted with calmness and courage on her 
part. She must feign incredulity — amazement; and to do this 
was comparatively easy. What was not easy — nay, what she 
felt herself to be utterly incapable of feigning — was the sympathy 
which Anthony would surely expect from her in his sorrow and 
perplexity. She felt as though she were some secret poisoner 
gazing at the sufferings her own act had produced. God knew, 
she sympathised with him — that her heart bled for the pain 
he was enduring and must endure. But her heart revolted 
from the hypocrisy of expressing her sympathy in words. Jim 
Sinclair had been right when he had said that not the least 
part of her punishment would be to see Anthony suffer, and 
to know that she must keep silence and allow him to suffer. 

“ What do you mean to do ? ” she asked him. Anthony 
looked at her quickly. It seemed to him that she spoke coldly, 
and there was a hardness in her tones which aroused in him 
a sudden feeling of resentment. 

“You must not be too hasty in blaming Jim,” he said. 
“ You do not know him, Laura — and I do. I will never believe 
that he has done anything disgraceful or dishonourable, until 
such proofs are put before me as compel me to believe it. 
There is something behind all this — something we do not under- 
stand as yet. Naturally, your first feeling is one of anger against 
Jim ; but, as I say, you do not know him. I am convinced that 
this letter is not genuine — oh, I do not mean that Jim did not 
write it, but that his real object in writing it was to conceal 
the truth from me ! He has not even been able to put into 
plain words the accusation he brings against himself. The whole 
thing is vague, and utterly unlike what the boy would have 
written had he really done something so bad as to oblige him 
to leave the country. Depend upon it, there is some woman 
behind it all. When he was here the other day I saw that he was 
troubled about something, and eventually he confided to me that 
he could not speak of what was worrying him, as it would not 
be honourable of him to do so, even to me. Of course, he was 
20 


3°6 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


keeping silence about somo woman — some brother-officer’s wife, 
no doubt. And now he asks me to believe that he has done 
something dishonourable. I will not believe it ! ” 

“What do you mean to do?” asked Sonia again, in a low 
voice. 

“ I mean to get to the bottom of this affair,” Anthony re- 
plied quickly. “ It will not do to act in a hurry. The boy must 
have given some reason for sending in his papers — I mean, in 
resigning from his regiment. Of course, the first thing to do will 
be to communicate with his colonel. I shall at least learn from 
him if anything is known in the regiment to account for Jim 
having taken such a step.” 

“ He says in his letter that he trusts to you to make no in- 
quiries. That you will learn soon enough what he has done to 
make such a step necessary. Absolute silence, he writes, is the 
only thing which can save him from being found out. Do you 
not understand, Anthony ? He trusts to you to keep silence, 
even when you know all. Evidently he is afraid lest any action 
on your part, any attempt to unravel the mystery prematurely, 
might lead to the world at large knowing the true reasons for his 
flight. At any rate do what he asks of you, what he trusts to 
you even now to do for him. Do not make any inquiries which 
would inevitably lead to the matter, whatever it is, becoming a 
public scandal, until you know what your nephew has really done. 
Perhaps when you do know, as he declares must soon be the case, 
you will bitterly regret not having kept silence, as he implores 
you to do.” 

She spoke rapidly and eagerly — so much so that Anthony 
could scarcely have failed to detect the note of keen anxiety in 
her voice, had there been room for any other thoughts than 
those occupying his mind. 

He took the letter up from the table and read it through 
again. 

“You are right,” he said after a pause. “You are right, 
Laura. A woman’s mind is often quicker than a man’s to grasp 
a point. Jim says here that he trusts to me. Well, I will show 
him that even now I will not betray his trust. But it is late in 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


307 


the day to give it me. He should have given it before ! It is 
true. He says that only by keeping silence until I know why he 
has gone away can I save him from being found out. That, if it 
means anything, means that whatever he has done — or thinks he 
has done — is as yet unknown to the world.” 

“Yes, yes! Do you not understand, Anthony? He relies 
upon you not to do anything which would lead to an open 
scandal. More than this ; he implies that he trusts to you to be 
silent even when you know all that has happened.” 

Anthony Cuthbert thought for a moment or two. “ It is 
something that the boy trusts me, even now ! ” he said presently. 
“ He need have no fear. Whatever this thing may be that he has 
done, no human being should hear of it from my lips ! ” 

“Ah, no! But by acting hastily you might make the thing 
far more serious,” returned Sonia quickly. “ As long as only 
you and I — only his family — know, it would be easy to give to 
the world some explanation of his departure from England — 
money difficulties — anything ! But if you were to write to his 
colonel, and let it be known that you were in ignorance of what 
had led to — to Jim taking this step, you would make people 
begin to talk, and before you could stop it there would be a 
scandal. Yes; a woman sometimes sees a thing more quickly 
than a man, as you say, and I am certain that I understand what 
your nephew meant to imply when he wrote this letter. He was 
appealing to your affection for him, to your loyalty ; even though 
he knew himself to be unworthy of either, he felt confident that 
he would not be making such an appeal in vain.” 

Anthony Cuthbert looked at her curiously. “ I misunder- 
stood you just now, carissima,” he said gently. “ I thought you 
meant to be hard on Jim. It was natural that you should feel 
indignant with him for having brought this trouble on me, but 
I see now that you are as anxious as I am not to believe in his 
guilt until we have a better proof of its existence than is contained 
in his own self-condemnation. I wish that you had met him, 
Laura, for, if you had, you would understand better why I simply 
cannot believe that he has done anything disgraceful ! I ought 
to be terribly upset by this news, by what he writes to me. Well, 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


308 

I am nothing of the sort ! I am distressed — perplexed — because 
I know, of course, that Jim would never have sent in his papers 
and left England unless something very serious had happened to 
him, something which had led him to think that he was obliged 
in honour to take such extreme measures. But that he has taken 
them to save himself, I cannot and will not believe. He is sacri- 
ficing himself for somebody else — some woman undoubtedly ; 
and sooner or later we shall learn the truth.” 

Sonia walked to the window and looked out on to the terraced 
gardens beneath it. “ And if you found that he had really done 
something disgraceful — that he had really left the country in 
order to save himself from the result of some crime — what should 
you do then, Anthony ? ” 

“ God knows ! It would be horrible — horrible, Laura ! But 
there is one thing I would not do. I would not desert him; 
and, so far as I could, I would stand by him, whatever he had 
done. You would do so also, would you not? for my sake, and 
for the sake of the family to which you now belong. I am no 
saint, as you know ; and I am not, perhaps, so easily scandalised 
as those who feel themselves obliged to sit in judgment on the 
moral weaknesses of their neighbours. There is only one form 
of immorality which I should find it hard to forgive, and that 
is immorality about money. I could place myself in the 
position of a man who had committed any form of crime passionel 
known to the law, and forgive him for having yielded to the 
temptations peculiar to his own nature. But it would not be so 
easy to me to forgive a man belonging to my own class who, we 
will say, forged, or cheated those who trusted him because he hap- 
pened to be a gentleman. No doubt I am very unmoral ; but I 
have never pretended, either to myself or to anybody else, that I 
was the reverse.” 

“ It is easy to forgive actions which only touch other people,” 
said Sonia. “ But supposing some one committed a crime pas- 
sionel which nearly touched yourself, would you forgive it so easily?” 

“ I should understand it,” replied Anthony. “ It is only 
meanness in its various forms which I do not feel as if I 
could forgive,” 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


309 


“ Have you ever said as much to — to Jim ?” Sonia hardly 
knew what thought prompted her question. Her mind was 
working rapidly, and, indeed, she was scarcely able to disentangle 
ideas which surged through it. 

“ Yes, we have often discussed these things together. Jim 
knows my views on certain subjects well enough ; and I am con- 
vinced that I know his. It is because I am convinced of it that 
I am sure he has never been guilty of a mean or dishonest action. 
He may have been guilty of what society regards as an immoral 
action, but never of one belonging to the former category.” 

Sonia was silent for a space. “ We must wait,” she said pre- 
sently. “ You see for yourself, Anthony, that I am right, and 
that it would probably be the worst thing you could do to make 
any move which could lead people to talk. You do not know 
yet what reasons Jim gave his colonel for retiring from the regi- 
ment. The military authorities may believe that he did so with 
your full knowledge.” 

Anthony gave her a sudden glance of admiration. “ You 
are a wonderful woman ! ” he said, smiling for the first time. 
“ How could you know that, as a matter of fact, I had both 
spoken and written to Jim on the subject of his leaving the 
regular army? I never remembered it until this moment. He 
will, of course, have had an interview with his colonel ; and may 
very likely have given him to understand that he was taking the 
step for private and family reasons. Yes, you are right, you have 
been right throughout, with your ready woman’s wit ! I must 
wait till I have heard more — till I have received the full explana- 
tion which Jim promises will soon reach me. After all, no action 
of mine here can alter the fact that he is out of the country — out 
of Europe by this time. If we could have met — if I could have 
reasoned with him — ” His voice broke suddenly, and Sonia 
realised the strain he had been putting upon himself to meet his 
trouble quietly and courageously. 

She longed to speak some words of comfort to him, but they 
died away on her lips. It was terrible to know that he was suf- 
fering, and must suffer still more ; that she could do nothing to 
help him, but must connive at adding to his unhappiness. What, 


310 ANTHONY CUTHBERT 

she wondered, would be Jim’s explanation of his flight — of what 
would he accuse himself in order to account for it ? Fortunately, 
a servant entered the room at that moment and announced that 
luncheon was ready. Anthony Cuthbert turned to his wife quickly, 
as the man retired again. “ You must help me to behave as if 
nothing had happened,” he said to her. “ We will keep the boy’s 
secret, whatever it is, as long as we can. There will be plenty of 
time afterwards — when we know the truth — to invent lies to con- 
ceal the truth, if it has to be concealed ; and, if it is possible, to 
account in some plausible manner for Jim’s non-appearance at 
Cuthbertsheugh. Whatever it is, Laura, you will help me to 
stand by him, will you not ? ” and he stooped down and kissed 
her. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


T HE twentieth of August, the date on which shooting over 
the moors belonging to the Cuthbertsheugh estate had 
been fixed to begin, had come and gone, and still no further 
word reached Anthony of his nephew. Anthony’s first and 
natural impulse had been to put off the party of six “guns” 
which was to assemble at Cuthbertsheugh the day before the 
grouse-driving commenced. In his present distress, and un- 
certainty as to what fresh blow might not at any moment fall 
upon him, the idea of entertaining guests at Cuthbertsheugh 
was intolerable. Four out of the six “ guns ” whom Anthony 
had asked several months previously to make up his shooting- 
party enjoyed a more than local reputation for their dexterity in 
bringing down driven grouse, and consequently their engagements 
during the months of August and September would have long 
ago been arranged. Sonia, very naturally, had no idea how 
very serious a matter the postponement or abandonment of a 
shooting-party would be ; but Anthony was very well aware it 
would be impossible to put off his guests at so short a notice 
without giving an unanswerable reason why he had found himself 
compelled to expose them to so grave an inconvenience. Four 
of the “guns,” moreover, were married men. The two who 
were not so happened to be remarkably eligible bachelors, 
and Anthony Cuthbert had asked them to be of the party 
with a view to pleasing certain among his female guests who, 
having daughters to marry, would be delighted to meet them. 
Notwithstanding all these details, Anthony had been on the 
verge of writing to the various members of the party to say 
that he had been obliged to abandon the four days’ grouse- 
driving for which he had bidden them. It would be too pain- 
ful, he felt, to be obliged to be civil to a houseful of people — 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


312 

to pretend interest in the shooting, to talk and laugh as though 
he had no almost unbearable anxiety gnawing at his heart. It 
had been hard enough to break the news to the head-keeper 
that, after all, Mr. James would be prevented from being at 
Cuthbertsheugh for the grouse-shooting, and that there was every 
probability of his not being able to get back there for a con- 
siderable time. The intelligence had seemed to cast a gloom 
over all the various departments at Cuthbertsheugh. The keepers 
were in despair, and keen disappointment reigned in the stables, 
for Jim had made himself beloved by all who were employed 
about the place. 

It had been Sonia, however, who had urged her husband to 
brace himself to the ordeal, and not to put off the invited 
guests. She showed him how necessary it would be that they 
should both do all in their power to prevent people from 
beginning to gossip. Jim’s non-appearance, she pointed out to 
Anthony, could easily be explained away. It was evident that 
as yet nobody in the neighbourhood had the least suspicion that 
anything was wrong. People had called at Cuthbertsheugh, and 
had casually asked when Jim was expected to return there; 
whereas, had they heard any disagreeable story concerning him, 
they would probably have avoided mentioning his name. Were 
the shooting-party suddenly to be given up, and Anthony and 
herself refuse to see the neighbours, it would be at once con- 
cluded that something very unexpected had happened ; and 
then, should any story get about concerning Jim, people would 
immediately be ready to believe in a scandal. 

“ If I were alone,” Anthony said to her, “ I do not feel that 
I should be able to face things here at Cuthbertsheugh. I 
should go away, shut up the place, and let people say what they 
chose. Then, I could find out where Jim has gone, and I know 
that if once we could meet, I should soon learn the truth from 
him. But as it is, Laura, with you to help me, I believe I can 
do more good by remaining here and trying my best to prevent 
any scandal from leaking out than by taking any other steps, for 
the present, at all events.” 

Sonia winced at his words. “ With me to help him ! ” she 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


3i3 


repeated to herself bitterly. Nevertheless, she knew she was 
right in urging him to make no difference in his plans ; to remain 
at Cuthbertsheugh and continue to see his friends and neighbours 
as usual, however painful such a course might be to him. She 
was thankful that there was to be this shooting-party, and that 
Anthony saw how impolitic it would be to put off the invited 
guests at the last moment. For the next few days, at all events, 
both he and she would be forced to exert themselves to behave 
as though nothing unusual had occurred. To her, the presence 
of strangers became more and more a relief. She would have 
liked Cuthbertsheugh to be always full of guests, since only when 
compelled to make herself pleasant and agreeable in society did 
she feel some slight and temporary relaxation of the mental 
strain which grew ever harder to endure as time went on. She 
wondered whether Anthony noticed her ever-increasing anxiety 
that they should not be left alone together more than was 
unavoidable, her perpetual suggestions that these or those neigh- 
bours should be asked to the house ; her alacrity to go anywhere 
and everywhere he and she were bidden. As a matter of fact 
Anthony, whom few things escaped, had noticed it ; and he had 
flattered himself that it was her way of showing him her readiness 
to do all in her power to adapt herself to her new home and to 
take up her position in the county as his wife in a manner which 
would be satisfactory to him. He was delighted, moreover, that 
she should have the amusement she appeared to find in their local 
society; and if a suspicion had ever crossed his mind that she 
was more at her ease in public than when alone with him, he 
had instantly dismissed it, telling himself that after having shut 
herself away from the world for so long, it was not surprising if 
even provincial society, in what was still to her a foreign country, 
interested and diverted her. 

The weather had continued gloriously fine all that week, and 
the shooting-party, which had assembled on the Monday, was 
not to break up till the following Saturday. The intervening 
days were to be spent on the moors ; and on two of these days 
the beats were many miles distant from Cuthbertsheugh, on a 
moor which Anthony’s father had bought and added to the 


3M 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


property. On the first day Sonia had accompanied the re- 
mainder of the ladies who joined the “guns” at luncheon and 
stayed to see the drives in the afternoon. The walking to the 
various butts had tired her, however, and she felt that in her 
condition she must be more than careful to do nothing unwise. 
On the following days several of the ladies of the party had 
absolutely declined to expose themselves again in the attacks 
of the Northumbrian midges, from which they had already 
suffered severely while seated in the butts. There was no lack 
of expeditions to be made, and on two of the afternoons Sonia 
had driven two midge-bitten mothers, happy in the knowledge 
that their daughters were each seated in the butts occupied by 
the eligible bachelors, to see the wild cattle at Chillingham and 
other local sights. On the Friday afternoon, however, she had 
pleaded a bad headache, from which, indeed, she was really 
suffering, and sent the dowagers of the party over to Ford Castle, 
which lovely spot they were particularly anxious to see. The 
carriage had only just driven away when the groom-of-the- 
chambers came to her with a little silver salver in his hand on 
which was a visiting-card. There were two gentlemen, he said, 
who wished to see Mr. Cuthbert on urgent business. He had 
told them that Mr. Cuthbert was away shooting and would not 
be back till late. What should he do ? 

Sonia looked quickly at the card. The name upon it con- 
veyed nothing to her; but underneath it was written another 
which she recognised as being that of Anthony’s London bankers. 
“ If these gentlemen care to see me,” she said to the domestic, 
“ instead of waiting until Mr. Cuthbert returns, you can tell them 
that I shall be happy to receive them.” 

There was some little delay before the man reappeared, 
followed by the two strangers. One of the two was an elderly 
man, clean-shaven, sleek, and prosperous-looking. His com- 
panion was considerably younger; and was evidently, Sonia 
thought, a clerk. “ I understand you wish to see my husband, 
Mr. Cuthbert,” she said to the elder man, as they bowed to 
her. “ Will you not sit down ? I am sorry to say my husband 
is shooting to-day, and will not be back till quite late this 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


3i5 

evening. But if there is any message you can leave with me 
for him ” 

Her two visitors exchanged a rapid glance. “I have the 
pleasure of addressing Mrs. Cuthbert ? ” interrupted the older man 
suavely. 

“ Certainly. I am Mrs. Cuthbert,” replied Sonia. 

“ It is very unfortunate that Mr. Cuthbert should not be at 
home — h’m, very unlucky indeed. But you, Mrs. Cuthbert, will 
perhaps be able to help me to clear up a little matter which needs 
explanation. I am here on behalf of Mr. Cuthbert’s London 
bankers, as my card will have told you. This gentleman,” and 
he turned towards his companion, “is a representative of the 
bank in Newcastle where, as no doubt you know, your husband 
also has an account.” 

Sonia bent her head, but made no remark. 

“ You are, of course, perfectly well acquainted with Mr. 
Cuthbert’s signature ? I mean, madam, you could swear to its 
authenticity, or the reverse, if necessary ? ” 

“ Naturally,” returned Sonia drily, “ I am well acquainted with 
Mr. Cuthbert’s signature.” 

Her visitor proceeded to draw a voluminous letter-case from 
his pocket, and, extracting from its contents a folded piece of 
paper, rose from his seat and handed it to her. “You will 
doubtless be able to tell me whether, in your opinion, the signa- 
ture to this cheque is that of Mr. Cuthbert, or merely an imitation 
of his signature.” 

Sonia took the cheque and studied it attentively. It was 
drawn in favour of “ self or bearer,” for the sum of five hundred 
pounds, and signed, Anthony Cuthbert. The two men never 
took their eyes off her face, and Sonia was conscious of their 
scrutinising gaze even while she was minutely examining the sig- 
nature purporting to be that of her husband. She held the 
cheque in her hands for a moment or two, and then quietly 
handed it back. 

“Well, madam,” asked the elder man, “should you be pre- 
pared to affirm that the signature to this cheque was written by 
Mr. Cuthbert himself?” 


316 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


“ I see no reason to doubt the fact.” 

The faces of the two men fell simultaneously. They looked 
at her quickly and suspiciously. “ We regret, madam, to be un- 
able to share your opinion,” said the representative of the London 
bank. “ In my opinion,” he continued, “ and in that of my 
partners, also in the opinions of the partners in the bank at New- 
castle, this signature is a forgery. I am surprised that you have 
not immediately detected it to be such.” 

Sonia shrugged her shoulders. “ My opinion on the subject 
does not seem to me to be of any practical value,” she observed, a 
little haughtily. “ Personally, as I have just said, I should be 
prepared to accept this cheque as having been signed by my 
husband. But, after all, it is for him to acknowledge or repudiate 
the signature, is it not ? It is unfortunate that he should not be 
here, as, had he been so, I imagine the question could be 
resolved at once. May I ask what is the history of the cheque ? ” 
She spoke coldly, and almost indifferently, as though the matter 
did not greatly concern her. 

The representative of the London bank hesitated. He was a 
gentleman, as were all the staff of the establishment in question, 
which was one of the famous old private banking-houses. More- 
over, he knew that Anthony Cuthbert had only recently married 
a foreigner, and was not a little surprised to find himself con- 
fronted by this quiet, self-possessed woman who talked such 
excellent English. He was a little impressed, too, by her 
personality; for Sonia, when she chose, could be very grande 
dame . 

“The cheque was presented at the bank in Newcastle,” he 
said, after a pause. “ The individual who presented it, and who 
received the money, was perfectly well known by sight to the 
bank officials, and therefore the cheque was cashed without any 
particular examination. It was only when it was sent to our 
bank in London that very grave doubts arose as to the genuine- 
ness of Mr. Cuthbert’s signature. By a very unusual coincidence, 
some delay occurred between the cashing of the cheque in 
Newcastle and its being returned to us. Otherwise we should 
certainly have communicated with Mr. Cuthbert before now.” 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 317 

“ Who was the individual who cashed the cheque ? ” asked 
Sonia quickly. 

“ My dear madam, that is the painful part of the matter. It 
is, naturally, the first question Mr. Cuthbert will ask, and I 
sincerely wish I were not compelled to answer it.” 

“ Why so, Mr. ? ” 

“Villiers,” supplemented her visitor, as Sonia hesitated. 
“ Unfortunately the individual in question is a near relative of 
Mr. Cuthbert. Naturally we trust that some satisfactory ex- 
planation will be forthcoming as to how the cheque came to be 
in this gentleman’s hands. It is payable to the bearer, as you 
may have noticed, therefore it is quite possible, of course, that it 
may have been handed to him by a third party — possible, but 
not at all likely, I am afraid. Moreover, it is not Mr. Cuthbert’s 
practice to make cheques for so considerable a sum payable 
to bearer only.” 

“ May I look at the cheque again ? ” asked Sonia suddenly. 

“ By all means ! ” 

She looked at it carefully, and then returned it to him. 
“Was it presented for payment at the bank in Newcastle on the 
date written upon it ? ” she asked. 

“No. I think I am correct in saying that more than a week 
had elapsed since that date and the day the cheque was cashed ; 
am I not right, Mr. Watson ? ” 

“ Nine days,” said the younger man briefly. 

“ Exactly ! nine days.” 

Sonia knitted her brows and did not speak for a space. “ I 
conclude that the person who held the cheque must have been 
quite satisfied that it was genuine, or he would not have lost so 
much time in attempting to get the money,” she said at length. 
“ My opinion,” she added, “ as I have said before, is probably of 
no account; but, all the same, I think that I, also, should 
not have suspected a forgery. I have often noticed that my 
husband’s signature varies considerably. But we are wasting time, 
Mr. Villiers. Nobody but Mr. Cuthbert can declare positively 
whether this signature is genuine or not. If he repudiates it, of 
course the cheque is a forgery. I wish I could have thrown more 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


318 

light on the matter, but I can only say that personally I should 
hesitate considerably before agreeing with your conclusions.” 

“But, my dear madam,” exclaimed the other, “surely you 
must see how very clumsily your husband’s usual signature has 
been imitated ! To my mind, and to that of my partners’, we 
have here not only a forgery, but an impudent forgery. Had 
this cheque been presented by any other individual, I venture 
to say that no bank acquainted with Mr. Cuthbert’s signature 
would have cashed it without further instructions from him. 
The person who presented the cheque was acute enough to trust 
that, under the circumstances, the signature would not be 
examined with any particular attention.” 

Sonia rose from her chair. “ It may be so,” she said indiffer- 
ently ; “ I am afraid I am no judge of such matters. I quite 
agree with you that the signature differs from that of my husband 
in some ways, but if I were called upon to swear that it was not 
his, I should decline to do so. The name appears to me to 
have been hastily and carelessly written, but that is all I should 
be prepared to affirm. In the meantime, I fear that it is impossible 
for you to see Mr. Cuthbert to-day. He has a shooting-party 
staying in the house, and they are shooting to-day many miles 
from here. To-morrow, of course, he would be at your disposal, 
and I shall tell him as soon as he returns this evening of your 
visit and its object.” 

“ We have come from Newcastle, Mrs. Cuthbert,” replied the 
banker, “ and I suppose there is nothing we can do now except to 
wait until to-morrow. If Mr. Cuthbert could make it convenient 
to come into Newcastle to-morrow, we could then discuss the 
matter at the bank. Perhaps you would be so kind as to ask 
him to telegraph to the bank making an appointment for to- 
morrow morning, and remind him that to-morrow is Saturday, 
and that I have to be in London again as soon as possible. I 
cannot understand how it is that Mr. Cuthbert was not aware 
that we should be here to-day to see him on a matter of business. 
He was advised by letter that the bank was sending me down to 
Cuthbertsheugh to interview him on a private subject.” 

Sonia smiled faintly. “ I think I can explain,” she said. 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


3 T 9 

“We have some moors belonging to my husband a considerable 
distance from here, and the party made an early start this morn- 
ing. Most probably the letter announcing your visit is now lying 
on Mr. Cuthbert’s table, as the post arrived long after he had left. 
However, I will tell him everything, and he will, I am sure, tele- 
graph to make an appointment with you in Newcastle to-morrow 
morning. You will allow me to offer you both some luncheon — 
if it is not too late — or at any rate something, before you return 
to the station? It is certainly most unlucky that you should 
have had the inconvenience of coming so far for nothing.” 

She rang the bell, and directed the servant who answered it 
to see that the two gentlemen had some luncheon, or anything 
else they might require. They had no sooner left her than Sonia 
went upstairs to her sitting-room, where she was sure of being 
undisturbed. She understood everything now. This was the 
explanation for his flight from England which Jim Sinclair had 
assured his uncle would soon reach him. The representative of 
Anthony’s London bank had been careful to mention no name ; 
but the very fact of the bank having sent one of its partners up 
to Northumberland to interview him personally made it clear that 
the matter was regarded as being one of a peculiarly delicate and 
intimate nature, and the banker had distinctly said that the person 
who presented the cheque was known as a near relative of the 
drawer. From the instant Sonia had realised that Anthony’s 
name had been forged, the whole thing had become clear as the 
daylight to her. Jim had deliberately thought out some means 
whereby his sudden flight might be accounted for in his uncle’s 
eyes ; and he had trusted that Anthony’s past affection for him, 
and his pride, would cause him to do all in his power to prevent 
the matter from becoming a public scandal. It had been with 
this object in his mind that Jim had insisted on Anthony’s 
absolute silence as the only means of causing the crime he more 
than hinted he had committed to pass undiscovered by the world 
at large. He must have known that nothing he could do would 
be likely to cause so complete a severance between him and 
Anthony as a dishonourable act in which money was concerned, 
and he had preferred deliberately to make himself guilty of such 


320 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


an act rather than run any risk of the real truth being discovered. 
The date placed on the cheque, curiously enough, was that of the 
day following the one on which Jim and she had met and finally 
parted at Warkworth ; but, according to the bankers, it had not 
been presented at the bank in Newcastle until nine days subse- 
quently. Evidently, Sonia reflected, Jim must have laid all his 
plans in London, and returned to Newcastle with the forged 
cheque on the very eve of his departure from England. The 
bankers were probably right in suspecting that he had calculated 
on the cheque being cashed at first sight by the Newcastle bank, 
where he would be known by sight as Mr. Cuthbert’s nephew. 
But they were also right in declaring the forgery to be so palpable 
as to be almost an impudence. The signature had not deceived 
Sonia for a moment. Her intuition, however, had instantly told 
her that Anthony would never repudiate it as not being genuine 
when he heard that the cheque had been presented by Jim. If 
the bank had wished to create a scandal, and bring the forger to 
justice, it had made a great mistake in not instructing its repre- 
sentative to conceal the identity of the individual who had cashed 
the draft, and to confine himself to asking Mr. Cuthbert whether 
or not he had drawn a cheque for so large a sum on the date 
mentioned. As it was, Sonia was certain that her husband would, 
without a moment’s hesitation, declare the signature to be his 
own, and so preclude any further action on the part of his 
bankers. Whatever their suspicions might be — and these suspi- 
cions would be more than justified when it became known that 
Jim Sinclair had left the army and was living abroad — it was 
likely enough that the bank would be only too pleased not to 
be obliged to inquire more deeply into the matter, and that 
Anthony’s acknowledgment of his signature would be accepted 
without demur. 


CHAPTER XXV 


I T spoke well for Anthony Cuthbert’ s qualities as a host that 
none of the party staying in the house at Cuthberts- 
heugh had the slightest idea how fervently thankful he was that the 
last evening of their visit was drawing to a close, and that the next 
day would see them dispersed to their various destinations.: The 
four days’ shooting had resulted in larger bags than had been made 
on the Cuthbertsheugh moors for many years past. Excepting 
Anthony himself, each one of the “ guns ” had shot well, and two of 
them, indeed, had shot brilliantly. Consequently everybody was in 
the best of tempers ; and if the host was occasionally preoccupied 
in his manner, and the hostess looked pale, and, when she was 
not actually joining in the conversation, troubled, the fact was 
scarcely, if at all, noticed by the guests. One of the young men 
was, if the mother of one of the young women were not too 
optimistic in confidences made to Mrs. Cuthbert, on the verge 
of doing what was expected of him as an eldest son. The other 
young man had, it was true, proved somewhat restive. He had 
not had much experience of grouse-driving, and was madly keen 
to make a good account of the birds which came over his butt. 
He had confided to a fellow-guest that, in his opinion, girls out 
shooting were a damned nuisance ; and he had not noticed when 
he made the observation that the father of the particular damned 
nuisance which had prompted it was standing immediately behind 
him. 

Anthony Cuthbert himself had shot abominably. Indeed, 
more than once, to the intense indignation of his loader, he had 
allowed birds to pass his butt without even firing at them. His 
mind was occupied by far other things ; and a man cannot be 
absent-minded and shoot driven grouse at the same time. 

It was late that evening when the shooting-party got back to 
21 3 « 


322 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


Cuthbertsheugh. Anthony’s first question to his wife was to ask 
her if there were any news, by which, of course, he meant to 
imply whether any further intelligence of Jim had arrived. He 
went immediately to his study to look through the letters await- 
ing him, and Sonia accompanied him. 

“ Nothing ! ” he said despairingly, after he had hastily turned 
over the letters lying on his writing-table. 

“ Anthony,” Sonia said hesitatingly, “ there is news. I did 
not wish to tell you anything until we were alone, but — ” And 
she paused. 

“There is news?” exclaimed Anthony. “For God’s sake tell 
it me quickly, bad or good ! I know it cannot be good, but any- 
thing is better than this terrible suspense, this ignorance which 
keeps me from taking any action lest I should be making matters 
worse for everybody concerned.” 

“ This gentleman called to see you to-day,” returned Sonia, 
giving him the London banker’s card. 

“ Villiers !” said Anthony Cuthbert, astonished “He is one 
of the partners of Griffin’s bank. Did you see him, Laura? 
What did he come about?” he continued quickly. “For the 
bank to have sent Villiers down here to see me implies some 
altogether unusual business. I hope you saw him, and explained 
that I should be back here this evening. He ought to have been 
asked at all events to stay the night here.” 

“ I did see him. There was another person with him, some- 
body from the bank in Newcastle. Mr. Villiers said they had 
written to you, to tell you that he would be coming to Cuthberts- 
heugh to see you.” 

Anthony hurriedly turned over his letters again. “ Yes,” he 
said, “here is something from them,” and he tore the letter open. 

“ It is only to say that one of their partners was leaving for 
Newcastle, and would come on here to see me on an urgent 
private matter,” he continued. “What does it all mean, Laura? 
Did Villiers explain anything to you ? ” 

Sonia looked at him steadily. “ It is about a cheque,” she 
said. “ A cheque for five hundred pounds has been cashed by 
your bank in Newcastle, and your London bankers believe that 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


323 


your signature — ” She stopped abruptly, for Anthony became 
very pale, and she saw that he steadied himself by leaning both 
his hands on the writing-table. 

“Laura,” he said, almost in a whisper, “did you see the 
cheque ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“And what did you say to Villiers ? ” he returned. “What 
did you say ? ” His voice was hoarse, and almost stern, as he 
repeated the question. 

“ I said that, in my opinion, the signature might quite possibly 
be genuine. Mr. Villiers asked me if I should be prepared to 
swear to your signature. I told him I should certainly not be 
prepared to say that the signature was not yours, that I had seen 
you sign your name with some variations in your handwriting, 
and that I thought in this case you probably had signed the 
cheque in a hurry. I said that of course you would know if you 
had drawn such a cheque, and would at once be able to say 
whether it was genuine. Did I do wrong, Anthony ? ” 

“ Wrong ? my God, no ! ” He sat down heavily in the chair 
beside him, and turned his face away from her. 

Sonia put her hand on his shoulder. “ Anthony ! ” she said 
with a half sob in her voice. “ Anthony ! ” 

He took her hand in his and held it tightly. “ Hush,” he said. 
“ Hush, Laura. Say nothing to me ! Do you hear, say nothing ! ” 

She understood and was silent, but her silence was an agony 
to her. Presently he turned his face to her again. It was 
grey and drawn. “ And afterwards ? ” he asked, “ what — what 
happened ? ” 

“They went away, back to Newcastle. Mr. Villiers wishes 
you to telegraph to the bank there making an appointment with 
them for to-morrow morning. He told me to remind you that 
to-morrow will be Saturday, and that he would have to return to 
London in the afternoon.” 

“Yes,” replied Anthony Cuthbert dully. “To-morrow is 
Saturday. I shall go to Newcastle in the morning.” 

“And what shall you do? what shall you say?” Sonia 
asked quickly. 


324 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


“ There is only one thing to be done or to be said,” returned 
Anthony. “ The cheque is mine. I — I drew it. Ah,” he added 
hastily, “ I forgot! You saw the cheque. Tell me, how was it 
made out ? ” 

“To yourself, and to the bearer. And it was dated the 
twenty-ninth of July.” 

“ Thank you. I thought so. I had forgotten.” 

Sonia looked at him with a flash of wonder and admiration 
in her eyes. This was loyalty indeed, she thought to herself 
bitterly. And it was also pride. For an instant she experienced 
a curious thrill of jealousy. She felt that she had never before 
entirely realised the depth of her husband’s affection for his 
nephew. These two men were loyal to one another, each in his 
different way ; and one of them was loyal to her. It was she — 
she only— who had to keep silence, and by keeping silence be 
disloyal to both. The thought was maddening — intolerable ; and 
she writhed under it in impotent self-abasement. 

“You will acknowledge the signature as yours?” she asked 
presently. 

“ The signature is mine.” 

“ Anthony ! ” she burst out passionately, “ you know it is not 
yours. Am I less to you than he ? Cannot you trust me with 
— with this secret ? I knew that you would never confess that 
the signature was a forgery; and because I knew it, I lied to 
those men. But you — do you believe that you must lie to me?” 

“ The signature is mine,” he repeated mechanically. “ You 
did right to refuse to allow Villiers to think that you shared the 
bank’s suspicions,” he continued, always in the same dull, level 
tones. “ To-morrow I shall tell him that he need not have 
wasted his time by coming down here.” 

Sonia was silent. The clang of the big bell in the courtyard 
at the back of the house penetrated to the study, warning them 
that it was time to dress for dinner. Anthony Cuthbert started 
as though aroused from a dream. “ We must play our respective 
parts for another few hours,” he said, “ and to-morrow, thank 
Heaven, these people will have gone ! Laura ! ” he added sud- 
denly, “ cannot you understand? It is not to you only that I am 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


325 


lying, but I am lying to myself as well ! I will have no scandal, 
if I can help it — for the boy’s sake and for his mother’s memory. 
Though he does not bear our name, he is half a Cuthbert. You 
made me see the other day that he trusted still to me to stand by 
him. Well, I shall do that to the end. And you promised to 
help me, which you have done already by declining to regard 
that cheque as — as not genuine. It is genuine, do you under- 
stand ? I drew it, and endorsed it. Therefore, whoever pre- 
sented it for payment had a perfect right to do so, so far as I, the 
original drawer, am concerned in the matter. I wish you to 
remember that I have told you this was the case, if you should 
ever be asked any further questions on the subject.” 

“ I shall remember,” said Sonia quietly. 

That night Anthony took leave of his guests, explaining that 
business would take him to Newcastle by an early train the fol- 
lowing morning, an incident of too frequent occurrence in the 
life of a Northumbrian country gentleman to excite any comment 
or surprise. 

The next day broke close and sultry. A thick haze hung 
over the country, and it was evident that the long spell of mag- 
nificent summer weather was destined soon to end in a severe 
thunder-storm. As Anthony’s train approached the outskirts of 
Newcastle the haze deepened into a lurid, copper-coloured fog, 
above which the smoky atmosphere of the city hung like a black 
pall. Anthony had telegraphed as soon as the office had opened 
that morning to say that he would be at the bank shortly before 
eleven o’clock, and he walked thither direct from the railway 
station. On entering the bank premises, he was at once shown 
into one of the private rooms, where, after a short delay, the 
senior partner, who was accompanied by his London colleague, 
joined him. Both the bankers were evidently nervous, and ap- 
peared to be embarrassed as how to open the conversation. 
Anthony Cuthbert gave them no assistance, or very little. “ I 
regret to have been away from Cuthbertsheugh when you called 
yesterday afternoon,” he said courteously to Mr. Villiers. “ I 
only found Messrs. Griffin’s letter informing me that you were 
coming to see me when I got home in the evening. Otherwise, I 


326 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


should certainly have asked you whether you would not have 
remained at Cuthbertsheugh at all events for Sunday.” 

Messrs. Griffin’s partner murmured his thanks. “ I had the 
pleasure of being received by Mrs. Cuthbert,” he replied. 
“ Doubtless she will have told you something of the nature of my 
errand. A very unpleasant business, Mr. Cuthbert ! I assure 
you that we feel it very deeply — and I am at one with my partners 
in saying that we shall do all in our power to — er — to— — ” 

Anthony Cuthbert smiled grimly. “ My wife told me that 
you have some suspicions as to the genuineness of a cheque I 
drew upon you on — let me see — the twenty-fifth or so of last 
month, I think it was — for five hundred pounds,” he observed. 

The two bankers looked at him curiously, and then exchanged 
glances. 

“The cheque is dated the twenty-ninth of last month, Mr. 
Cuthbert,” said the Newcastle banker hesitatingly. 

“Ah — thank you! Exactly. The twenty-ninth of July. 
One’s memory is apt to play one tricks in the matter of dates. 
Well, gentlemen ? ” 

“ The cheque was dated the twenty-ninth of July,” continued 
the other, “ but it was not presented for payment until the seventh 
of August — nine days afterwards. I regret to say, Mr. Cuthbert, 
that in the absence of our head cashier here, who was away on 
his holiday, one of our clerks cashed the draft.” 

“ Why the deuce shouldn’t he have cashed it ? ” demanded 
Anthony. 

“ Because,” interposed Mr. Villiers quickly, “ nobody ac- 
quainted with your handwriting would ever have supposed that 
cheque to be anything else than a very indifferent forgery. Had 
it not been for the fact that the person presenting it was known 
by sight to our clerk as — as a very near relative of your own, he 
would have examined the draft with greater attention than, un- 
fortunately, he thought necessary under the circumstances. As 
the cheque in question was one of our own, it was sent on in due 
course according to the usual routine. I fear that the August 
bank holiday must be held responsible for some delay on our 
part in apprehending the — er — forgery ” 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


327 


Anthony Cuthbert checked him. “ One moment, please, 
Mr. Villiers ! ” he said quietly. “ I quite appreciate the bank’s 
vigilance on my behalf — but ” 

This time it was the banker who interrupted him. “The 
bank exercises vigilance on its own behalf,” he said drily. “ It 
is we, Mr. Cuthbert, and not you who suffer from a thing of this 
kind.” 

“I was about to say,” resumed Anthony coldly, “that 
though I quite appreciate the bank’s vigilance — on my behalf, 
or its own — the said vigilance would seem in this case to be — 
well, exercised to an unnecessary extent. I suppose I may be 
allowed to see the cheque in question, may I not, gentlemen? 
I think it was shown to my wife yesterday ; and, doubtless, you 
have it with you.” 

The cheque was produced, and Anthony Cuthbert examined 
it attentively. 

“I can only regret,” he said at length, “that you should 
have been put to any inconvenience'; and more especially that 
you, Mr. Villiers, should have taken so long a journey for 
nothing. The whole thing is a mistake. The cheque is mine. 
I conclude, though you have not told me so, that it was pre- 
sented by my nephew, Captain Sinclair ? ” 

“That is so, Mr. Cuthbert,” replied the Newcastle banker. 

“ Of course. The cheque was written in a hurry. It should, 
no doubt, have been made to ‘ Order,’ being for so considerable 
a sum. Well, gentlemen, I trust I have relieved your minds. 
As I say, I am extremely sorry that any carelessness of mine, or 
any departure from my usual methods in writing out my cheques 
should have caused so much inconvenience.” 

“Are we to understand that you acknowledge this signature 
to be your own ? ” asked Mr. Villiers abruptly. 

Anthony looked at him steadily. “ Certainly you are to 
understand so,” he replied calmly. “I think, Mr. Villiers, that 
you mentioned the word forgery just now. It is an ugly word ; 
and, taking into consideration the circumstances under which 
the cheque was presented, an entirely inadmissible one.” 

The bankers looked at one another again in some perplexity. 


328 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


“There is one thing which seems to have escaped your 
attention, Mr. Cuthbert,” the London banker said after a 
pause. “This cheque bears no number. If it had been 
by you on the alleged date, it would naturally carry a 
number corresponding with the series of your present cheque- 
book.” 

Anthony shrugged his shoulders. “ My dear sir,” he 
answered impatiently, “ you are, if you will allow me to say so, 
carrying your professional caution a little too far. It is not the 
first time, I think, that I have drawn a cheque in a hurry — at a 
moment when I had no access to my cheque-book. You have 
before now passed me a blank cheque across your counter which 
bore no number.” 

“ One of our cheques of this description was given to Captain 
Sinclair. He entered the bank some weeks ago, and said that 
you had commissioned him to ask for an unnumbered cheque, 
as you were in London, and had unfortunately left your cheque- 
book in the country.” 

Anthony’s eyes lightened with a sudden look of relief. 
“ Perfectly ! ” he exclaimed, “ my nephew acted by my instruc- 
tions, and I subsequently used the very cheque — at least, I 
presume it must have been the same, as I had no other with 
me.” 

“May I ask if Captain Sinclair is with you at Cuthberts- 
heugh at this moment ? ” asked Mr. Villiers. 

“ No. My nephew is abroad.” 

“ Ah, abroad ! ” There was a singular intonation in his 
voice which Anthony, though his face flushed and a look of 
anger flashed from his eyes, affected not to observe. 

“Then, Mr. Cuthbert,” interposed the Newcastle banker, 
“we are to understand that you — er — accept the signature as 
your own ? ” 

Anthony turned upon him suddenly. “ Yes,” he said 
shortly; “and I trust, Mr. Jesmond, that a similar error — 
which conveys with it an intolerable supposition regarding a 
member of my family — will not occur again. I can expose 
neither myself nor any relative of mine to being annoyed by 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


329 


such hasty suppositions. Therefore, as I cannot guarantee that 
my handwriting may never vary, perhaps it would be as well if 
I were to place my banking accounts elsewhere, and relieve you 
and Messrs. Griffin from any further responsibility with regard 
to them ” 

“ My dear sir ! ” exclaimed both bankers simultaneously. 

“ I should be extremely sorry to take such a course,” pursued 
Anthony, disregarding the interruption ; “ but no doubt you will 
understand that having acknowledged this cheque as mine, I 
wish to hear no more about the matter. Your clerks, I 
conclude, are too well trained in their duties to gossip about 
any error into which their principals may have fallen. I 
imagine, therefore, that we may look upon the incident as 
closed.” 

The others bowed, and there was an embarrassing silence 
which Anthony was the first to break. 

“ As I am here,” he observed, “ I may as well mention 
another little matter of business in which also my nephew is 
concerned. My recent marriage has, of course, necessitated my 
making a new will, and the rearrangement of my affairs to a 
certain extent. It is my intention to settle a portion of my 
Yorkshire property on my nephew. I have already told him 
that I should wish him to leave the army and learn something 
about the management of property which will some day be 
his. He is, I know, on the point of sending in his papers, if 
he has not already done so. My lawyers will probably have 
to place themselves in communication with both of your houses, 
gentlemen, before the details of this resettlement can finally be 
arranged.” 

There was a touch of haughtiness in Anthony Cuthbert’s 
tone as he spoke, and something, too, of the grand seigneur 
manner which was apt on occasions to show itself in him. The 
two bankers gazed at him with scarcely concealed amazement, 
and Mr. Villiers’s clean-cut lips pursed themselves up in a 
way which suggested that he would have liked to whistle, 
had it not been contrary to all known professional etiquette to 
do so. 


33 ° 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


“ We shall, of course, be very happy to hear at any time from 
your lawyers, Mr. Cuthbert,” he observed suavely. 

“Delighted!” re-echoed the senior partner of Messrs. Jes- 
mond, Dene, & Co., the well-known north-country banking 
house. 

Anthony rose and shook hands with them. “ I think,” he 
said, “ that there is nothing more to discuss. It is hardly neces- 
sary for me to add, gentlemen, that I of course rely on your 
discretion not to allow the unfortunate misunderstanding regard- 
ing this cheque to — to go any further. Otherwise — ” and he 
shrugged his shoulders significantly. 

“Well, A’ahm domned ! ” ejaculated Mr. Jesmond, lapsing 
into dialect in his astonishment, as soon as the door had closed 
on Anthony Cuthbert. 

“So am I, Mr. Jesmond,” agreed his London colleague. 
“ So am I ! ” And they looked at each other in silence for a 
moment or two. 

“ He carried it off well — vara well ! ” continued Mr. Jesmond. 
“All the same, Mr. Villiers, sir, we’re compounding a felony, 
that’s what we’re doing. Aye, but when Cuthbert of Cuth- 
bertsheugh gets on his high horse not the Duke himself could 
make a man feel smaller. What for did you give the show away 
about the number of the cheque, Mr. Villiers ? It would have 
taken him all his time to account for that, A’ahm thinking. But 
you just gave him the cue, and he took it cannily.” 

The partner in Messrs. Griffin glanced at him with a dry 
smile. “ The man was fighting hard,” he said. “ Couldn’t you 
see that he was? Under the circumstances, Mr. Jesmond — 
under the circumstances, I repeat — it appeared to me to be 
inadvisable to press the matter too much. I liked his pluck. 
Good blood always tells,” he added to himself. “ I think, my 
dear sir,” he continued, “that it will be to the interests of all 
parties to drop the subject. Whatever — hem — our suspicions 
may be, we are in no way called upon to act upon them in the 
face of Mr. Cuthbert’s formal acknowledgment of the validity 
of the cheque. Neither your house nor mine suffers in any way 
from our accepting Mr. Cuthbert’s statement; whereas, to put 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


33i 


it plainly, if we insisted on raising further difficulties, I imagine 
that we should suffer a good deal.” 

In the meantime, Anthony Cuthbert wandered about New- 
castle, filling up the time as best he could until the afternoon 
express that would take him back to the junction at Alnmouth 
was due to leave. He avoided the county club, whither he 
usually resorted when business condemned him to pass a few 
hours in the city by the Tyne. He had fought his fight, and 
he felt that, for the present at all events, Jim was safe. The 
moment when the London banker had referred to the cheque 
as being without a number had been a critical one ; for Anthony 
could not understand how a blank cheque from his own cheque- 
book could have passed into any other hands. This had been 
the one point which he had dreaded might be raised, and he 
had been quite at a loss in his mind as to how he should meet 
it with any plausible explanation. He more than suspected that 
Mr. Villiers had purposely offered him the chance of escaping 
from the difficulty : but that the banker should have considered 
it kindly to do so filled him with poignant shame. He had been 
compelled, however, to suppress both his shame and his pride, 
and grasp at the straw held out to him. After all, he thought, 
intolerable and ignominious as it was that he should have had 
to thankfully avail himself of Messrs. Griffin’s compassion, the 
position would have been a thousand times worse had their 
representative shown any desire to be uncompromising in his 
attitude. 

Leaving the main streets of the city, Anthony Cuthbert 
wended his way down to the Tyne, and the wharves and docks 
lining the riverside. That Jim had actually forged the cheque, 
he could no longer doubt. Even now, however, Anthony could 
not bring himself to believe that his nephew had done so for the 
sake of obtaining five hundred pounds. Setting the moral aspect 
of the affair quite aside, if Jim had committed a forgery simply 
because he wished to lay his hands at once upon a certain sum 
of money, he had committed the act of a fool. The boy knew 
perfectly well that if he had asked for five hundred pounds, he, 
Anthony, would have given it to him, and more than that sum, 


332 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


had he really needed it to pull him out of some trouble. More- 
over, he had asked Jim if he were in any financial difficulty, and 
Jim had assured him that so far from this being the case, his 
balance at the bank was considerably more satisfactory than it 
was wont to be, owing to his having spent little while he had 
been at Malta. No, whatever it might be that had caused Jim to 
commit this folly, he had evidently not committed it for the sake 
of the money, and this thought brought with it untold comfort 
and satisfaction to Anthony’s mind. There was something 
behind it all, something which had yet to come out. The more 
Anthony reflected upon the whole circumstances of the case, 
the more convinced he became that this apparent forgery was 
merely a carefully prepared plan on his nephew’s part to furnish 
some plausible excuse for his flight. This conviction, however, 
while it brought comfort with it as exonerating Jim from having 
stooped to committing a vulgar fraud, struck a chill to Anthony’s 
heart. What, he asked himself, must be the gravity of the 
position in which Jim found himself if he had preferred to allow 
the world to suppose he had forged, rather than divulge the 
true nature of that position ? This was a problem which rose like 
an impassable barrier, and Anthony felt that time alone could 
bring about its solution. Jim knew that he would not find 
any very strict censor of morals in a man whom he had always 
preferred to regard in the light of a close and intimate friend 
rather than in that of an uncle. It was inconceivable that he 
should not have confided in him as to any unpleasant position 
into which an unfortunate lapse from the paths laid down by 
society for its own guidance and safety might have led him. There 
could be only one explanation for Jim’s reticence, namely, that 
he believed himself to be bound in honour to some other person 
to observe that reticence. The boy was a fool to think that he 
could deceive him, Anthony, by so clumsy a device as this affair 
of the cheque. 

Anthony eventually returned to the railway station, where he 
ordered some luncheon in the refreshment rooms, and left two- 
thirds of what he had ordered on his plate. At last the hour 
came when he could put himself into the train. He longed to be 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


333 


back at Cuthbertsheugh, and to acquaint his wife with the result 
of his interview with the bankers. He was thankful to feel that 
he was no longer alone, that Laura, as he had returned from old 
force of habit to call her, without further remonstrance on her 
part, was at his side. It was wonderful how she had intuitively 
guessed the line he would take over this affair of the cheque. 
Had she at once denied that the signature could be his, when 
the bankers had expected that she would do so, she would have 
made it almost impossible for either himself or them to have 
arrived at a tacit understanding that no further action was to be 
taken in the matter. How sensible she had been, too, in urging 
him to make no move until he knew more than Jim’s letter had 
told him, and how quick she had been to read between the lines 
of that letter, and to realise that Jim was trusting to him to keep 
silence and not to make things harder for him than they were. 
If only he and Laura could keep the thing from getting out in 
the county. Unluckily, something would have to be said to 
Jane, in order to account for Jim’s prolonged absence, and for 
the fact — which could not be kept a secret, inasmuch as any day 
it might appear in the official Gazette — that he had left his 
regiment. Anthony feared that if his sister heard the story of 
the cheque, she would be pitiless in her condemnation of her 
nephew. She had always hinted mysteriously that Jim had not 
the frank, straightforward nature which he, Anthony, believed 
him to possess, and that the boy’s affection for him was not so 
disinterested as it appeared to be. The coolness which had 
arisen between himself and Jane in consequence, had been dis- 
sipated by his marriage, and by Jane’s good-will and loyalty to 
his foreign wife. But now, Anthony felt, there would be every 
risk of another feud between them, since Jane would certainly be 
triumphant, and would lose no opportunity of pointing out her 
acumen in reading character. There is nothing more irritating 
than the “ I told you how it would be ” of a near relative or an 
indiscreet and tactless friend, and Anthony Cuthbert did not 
feel as though he could tolerate the discourses which his sister 
would be sure to weave round that well-worn text. But for- 
tunately he would no longer be obliged to tackle Jane single- 


334 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


handed, for there was Laura now to help him. Fortunately, 
also, the two had made friends, Laura would no doubt be able 
to soften Jane’s indignation, and at all events bring her to see 
that absolute silence on what had befallen Jim was necessary, not 
for Jim’s own sake alone, but also for the honour of Cuthberts- 
heugh. 


CHAPTER XXVI 


T HE weeks passed, and, although no word or news of Jim 
Sinclair reached Cuthbertsheugh, Anthony Cuthbert was 
able at least to congratulate himself that no scandal had been 
spread abroad to account for his nephew’s disappearance. In 
due course Captain James Sinclair’s name had been gazetted as 
having resigned his commission, and naturally enough both 
Anthony and his wife had been questioned on the subject by 
their friends and neighbours in the county. When it was observed, 
however, that Mr. Cuthbert did not seem to be the least surprised 
at the fact of his nephew having left the army, the detail was very 
soon forgotten. Anthony mentioned casually to those of his 
neighbours, such as the Wilsons of Heiferlaw Tower and others 
who would be likely to repeat the statement far and wide, that 
his nephew had gone to shoot big game in the wilds of Africa. 
Jim, he had explained, was naturally of a roving disposition, and 
devoted to sport. It was quite uncertain how long he would be 
absent from England; and, now the boy was independent, he 
would probably be keener than ever to gratify his tastes for travel- 
ling' in out-of-the-way places and for big-game shooting. Such 
an explanation had proved entirely satisfactory to the neighbour- 
hood generally. In so sporting a county as that of Northumber- 
land, it was regarded as only natural that a young man should be 
keen to bring home as many trophies of the chase as possible; 
and most people envied Jim for having the chance of going after big 
game, and also for having a rich uncle who, no doubt, had helped 
him to finance his expedition in search of it. Moreover, it was 
entirely in accordance with the old traditions of Cuthbertsheugh 
that members of the family should devote themselves to the chase 
in all its various branches. 

The autumn, always late in the North, was giving place gradually 

335 


336 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


but surely to winter. Several times the Cheviots had been covered 
with the first snows, and fierce gales from the west, and from the 
North Sea, had swept over the moorlands, moaning and roaring 
through the woods and causing the older portions of the house at 
Cuthbertsheugh occasionally to tremble under their force. Early 
in November the leaves had fallen sufficiently to allow of the 
coverts at Cuthbertsheugh being shot, and another shooting- 
party had assembled in the old house. Anthony Cuthbert 
exerted himself to the utmost to minister to his guests’ comfort 
and amusement, and the sport during the week had left nothing 
to be desired. 

Nothing had surprised Anthony more than the way in which 
hisj sister had received the intelligence that Jim Sinclair had left 
his regiment and the country. He had expected an outburst of 
bitter indignation, and had dreaded lest that indignation might 
be expressed not only within the walls of Cuthbertsheugh, but also 
to her particular friends outside them. 

Nothing of the kind occurred. Jane Cuthbert had shown 
the greatest distress when her brother had informed her of what 
had happened, and her perplexity and bewilderment had been 
scarcely less than his own. It had been Anthony’s first intention 
not 'to tell her of the episode concerning the cheque ; but when 
he saw that her genuine grief was unaccompanied by any of the 
recriminations he had anticipated, he had judged it to be both 
wiser for Jim’s sake and kinder to her to tell her all that had 
passed. He had been more than astonished at the result of 
his confidence. Jane had risen to the occasion with a tact and 
dignity which won his admiration. Her very abruptness and 
directness of expression came as an unexpected comfort to him, 
and she displayed a shrewdness and large-mindedness which he 
had never before realised to be in her nature. The supposition 
that her nephew was capable of having committed a forgery for 
the sake of the money connected with it she swept away as 
scornfully and indignantly as had Anthony himself. Nobody 
with a drop of Cuthbert blood in their veins would stoop to do 
a meanness about money, she declared, and still less to commit 
a crime in order to obtain it. She agreed with her brother in 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


337 


thinking that sooner or later it would be found that a woman 
was at the bottom of the whole affair; and Anthony noticed, 
almost with amusement, that she appeared to be scarcely, if 
at all, scandalised by the idea. She quite agreed, also, that 
absolute silence as to all that had happened was the only 
possible way of helping Jim to emerge from the difficulties 
in which, as she expressed it, some youthful folly had landed 
him ; and she supported both her brother and sister-in-law 
in the explanations they gave to the world to account for his 
absence from England. One of the results of Jane Cuthbert’ s 
attitude was that both Anthony and Sonia insisted on her 
shutting up her house in Alnwick for several months, and on 
her coming to pay an indefinite visit to them at Cuthbertsheugh. 
Anthony, indeed, had been the first to suggest the idea to his 
wife, and Sonia had eagerly agreed to it. As a matter of course, 
shooting invitations to various houses in the county, and in the 
north of England generally, were not lacking to them ; but both 
of them preferred to remain quietly at Cuthbertsheugh. Miss 
Cuthbert had not taken up her residence with them very long 
when it became evident that Sonia, at all events, was more than 
justified in not wishing to leave home. Anthony was beginning 
to be not a little uneasy about his wife’s health. She was 
gradually becoming nervous, and at times seemed to be a prey 
to a strange despondency and depression of spirits very unlike 
her usual nature. Whereas earlier in the autumn she had never 
seemed content unless she were either receiving guests at 
Cuthbertsheugh, or being a guest herself elsewhere, she now 
appeared to dislike the idea of either seeing people, or being 
seen. After the last shooting-party they had entertained, her 
energy seemed suddenly to have deserted her. It was some 
little time before Anthony guessed the truth, and, indeed, he 
never did guess it; for it was Jane Cuthbert who enlightened 
him. 

December came, and with it Christmas, which passed quietly 
enough at Cuthbertsheugh. Sonia seemed to rouse herself 
somewhat during the festivities which Anthony wished to give 
for the benefit of the tenants and servants on the estate. The 
22 


338 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


cottagers and school-children were entertained at dinner during 
Christmas week, and at the New Year a tenants’ ball was given 
in the old hall, which was attended not only by the tenantry 
and employes on the Cuthbertsheugh estate, but also by several 
of the more important tenant-farmers on the Yorkshire property, 
who journeyed into Northumberland to be present at it. Sonia 
went through all these functions with her usual winning charm 
of manner, and Anthony was particularly glad that she should 
be seen by all his people. He had insisted on the ball being 
given, if for no other reason than to make it plain to everybody 
whom it might concern that there was no cause why merry- 
makings should not take place at Cuthbertsheugh that Christmas. 
He was all the more glad to see that Sonia was well enough to 
throw herself into the part of lady of the house and renew the 
excellent impressions she had made on his people when she 
first came among them, on account of a rumour which had 
reached his ears through his sister, but which he had not thought 
it well to mention to Sonia herself. Miss Cuthbert, who knew 
most things that were said and thought in the district, had 
noticed that her brother’s wife was not so popular with the 
villagers and tenants as she had been in the early days of the 
marriage. At first Jane Cuthbert had concluded that this was 
merely because Sonia had not visited them so often as she had 
done previously. By degrees, however, she learned that in some 
mysterious way Mrs. Cuthbert was supposed to be responsible 
for “ Mistor-r James’ ” prolonged absence from Cuthbertsheugh. 
She was suspected of having ousted her husband’s nephew from 
motives of jealousy; and as Jim had made himself a popular 
idol, Sonia’s supposed attitude towards him was being consider- 
ably resented by a portion of the community. Miss Cuthbert 
had done her best to remove this impression. She was well 
aware, however, that it is a great deal easier to get an idea into 
a Northumbrian brain than to get it out again when once there, 
and she felt that Anthony ought to know what was being said. 

The ball was a great diplomatic success, though Sonia was 
altogether unconscious of how necessary it had become for her to 
act in such a manner as to retain the sympathies she had won. 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


339 


She was beautifully dressed, with as much care as though she had 
been going to attend a Court function, and at Anthony’s wish she 
wore the Cuthbert diamonds in her hair and on her neck. At 
first she had demurred at making herself, as she feared, too smart 
and altogether overdressed for the occasion, but both Anthony 
and Miss Cuthbert assured her that there was no greater mistake 
than to under-dress on occasions such as this, and that the don- 
ning of her most beautiful gown and the family jewels would be 
taken as a compliment paid to her guests. That night she looked 
pale but radiantly handsome, and as she moved about among 
the crowd in the old hall, her diamonds flashing in the light of 
innumerable wax candles, speaking kindly and gracious words to 
all, a murmur of admiration followed her. Many who saw her 
that evening remembered it for years afterwards; and some re- 
gretted in the near future that they spoke against her as an 
interloper between Mistor-r Cuthber-rt and his nephew, and as 
a mischief-maker. 

It was already past midnight, and a few of the neighbouring 
gentry who had also been asked to come to the ball if they felt 
so disposed were preparing to take their departure. Sonia, too, 
was looking tired, and paler than ever, and Anthony suggested 
to her that she and his sister should slip away unobserved. He 
himself would remain half-an-hour longer, and would then follow 
their example ; thus leaving the company free to enjoy itself in 
its own fashion, and without the restraint entailed by their 
presence. 

He was talking to one of the oldest of his tenants, who, not- 
withstanding that he had long passed the age of threescore years 
and ten, had been dancing as vigorously as any of the young 
men in the room, when a wealthy sheep-farmer from upper 
Tynedale, an important individual who numbered his sheep by 
thousands, approached him. 

“ Aah’m thinking, Mistor-r Cuthber-rt, that it’s o’er long since 
we’ve seen you out with the hounds in our parts — but nae doot 
but ye’eve ither things to think aboot than hunting.” 

“ That’s true ! ” returned Anthony Cuthbert genially, thinking 
to himself that how true it was the farmer little knew. 


340 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


“ Aye — and we’re none of us getting youngor-r — and that’s true 
too, whatevor-r. Aye, but Mistor-r Cuthber-rt, you could go, and 
so could the young captain. They tell me he’s in foreign parts, 
shooting lions and such like. My son saw him one day — the end 
of July it was — at Warkworth, but he said the captain didn’t seem 
to recollect him, though they had met out cub-hunting several 
times.” 

Anthony Cuthbert started violently. Then he recovered him- 
self. “My nephew has been abroad for some time,” he said 
quietly. “ Your son must have mistaken somebody else for him. 
He was in Scotland most of July, and went off immediately after- 
wards on this expedition of his.” 

The farmer shook his head decidedly. “No mistake,” he 
replied stolidly, and then he winked at Anthony. “My son would 
have gone up and spoken to him, but the captain was with a 
lady, a very good-looking woman, my son declared, only some- 
thing a bit foreign about her,” he continued. “ The two seemed 
upset about something, and my lad thought the best thing he 
could do was to pretend not to recognise the captain under the 
circumstances,” and he winked again knowingly. 

For at least the fourth time that evening the popular country 
dance to the Tyneside air of “ Weel may the Keel Row” was 
being executed. Anthony suddenly felt as though the whole room 
were turning round him. Dancers, oak-panelled walls, and 
candles were mixed up in one revolving maze, while the familiar 
strains of “ The Keel Row ” beat like hammers on his brain. 
His countenance must have betrayed something of the shock he 
had received, for the farmer hurriedly asked if he was feeling ill. 
“ The room,” he said confusedly. “ It is getting too hot. I must 
tell them to open a window,” and he turned hastily away from the 
group surrounding him and left the hall. 

Jim at Warkworth at the end of July ? What should take him 
to Warkworth when he was supposed to be in the north of Scot- 
land? And a woman with him — a woman who looked like a 
foreigner ? It was impossible. There must be some confusion — 
some mistake ! If Jim had been in the county why had he not 
come to Cuthbertsheugh ? And yet he, Anthony, knew the Tynedale 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


34i 


sheep-farmer’s son well enough by sight, for he hunted regularly 
in the Percy country as well as in his own district, and was always 
well mounted. Jim, too, knew the young fellow personally, for 
he had seen them talking together more than once while waiting 
for the hounds to break away from covert. On the very last 
occasion when he and Jim had been out together cubbing the 
meet had been in the Percy country, and the hounds had drawn 
Beanley Wood. Anthony recollected perfectly well that both the 
farmer and his son had ridden up and talked to them during a 
long wait before the hounds got away. No, it was not likely 
that there could be any mistake. His nephew had been at Wark- 
worth at the end of July, and at the end of July — the twenty-eighth 
— Laura had been there also. He remembered everything now ; 
every detail connected with these days, and how bent Laura had 
been on making her excursion to Warkworth alone. Was it 
possible that they could have arranged to meet there, knowing 
that he would be away in Yorkshire until the evening of the next 
day ? 

In vain Anthony strove to put this thought away from him 
as absurd and altogether untenable. How, or why, should two 
people who had never beheld one another arrange such a plan ? 
It might well be that some woman, even a foreigner, had been 
with Jim, and that they had been seen together; but why at 
Warkworth — why, in God’s name, at Warkworth? It was use- 
less. The terrible doubt returned to him again and again with 
ever-increasing persistency. His mind grasped eagerly at anything 
which should explain what his common sense told him could 
scarcely be a coincidence. It might be that Jim, for some 
reason of his own, had written privately to Laura, although 
unacquainted with her, and had appointed a meeting-place at 
Warkworth in order to confide his trouble to her ; but no — the 
idea was too far-fetched, too unnatural, to be even plausible. 
Besides, if it had been so, why was the forged cheque dated the 
very day after that meeting must have taken place ? In this case, 
Laura must have known of Jim’s intention to forge the cheque; 
or if she did not know it, she must at all events have been aware 
that Jim was in some terrible difficulty, and that only by de* 


342 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


liberately committing a felony could he furnish an excuse for 
flying from England. And knowing this, Laura had kept silence 
— had seen him suffer, knowing that by speaking she could have 
lightened his suffering even if she could not have removed its 
cause ! Again and again he had said to her that anything would 
be easier to him to bear than the fact that Jim had left him in 
total ignorance of the truth. If the boy had broken every com- 
mandment in the Decalogue, or committed other crimes delicately 
omitted therefrom, Anthony could have faced the situation with 
less mental anguish than his enforced ignorance was causing him. 

On his way from the hall where the dancing was going on, 
he passed through the library and one of the drawing-rooms. 
Neither his wife nor his sister were there, and Anthony concluded 
that they had gone up to their rooms. He went to his study, and 
there, pacing up and down it, tried to wrestle with this new prob- 
lem by which he had been so suddenly and unexpectedly con- 
fronted. He had already made up his mind that he would tell his 
wife that Jim had been seen at Wark worth in the company of a 
lady who had been supposed to be a foreigner ; and that the date 
of his being there must have coincided in a remarkable degree 
with that on which she herself had gone to Warkworth during 
his absence in Yorkshire. If these suspicions which would force 
themselves upon him were true, her face and manner would 
surely betray her, and he would insist on knowing the object 
for which such a meeting had been arranged, and what it was 
she had learned from his nephew in the course of it. It was too 
late that night to speak to her. She had already had fatigue 
and excitement enough. But to-morrow he would speak — and 
he would not rest satisfied until he knew the truth. 

Anthony’s reflections at this point were suddenly interrupted 
by his sister’s entrance into his study, She looked anxious and 
disturbed, and he saw at a glance that something was wrong. 

“What is it, Jane?” he asked, a little impatiently. “What 
has happened ? More troubles ? ” 

“ I am uneasy about Sonia, Anthony,” she replied quickly. 
“ She has evidently overtired herself, and we had hardly left the 
hall when she fainted. I — I don’t quite know how to explain 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


343 


to you, Anthony — these things are so difficult to talk about 
to a man. But the fact is, I do not think her condition is at 
all — well, as it should be, considering ” 

“My dear Jane — forget you are talking to a man! A 
brother doesn’t count. Considering— what ? ” 

“ Oh, dear me ! well, considering you have only been married 
five months. If it had been seven, of course one would not be 
so much surprised. But five months only,” and Miss Cuthbert 
shook her head. 

“ We will send for a doctor,” said Anthony hastily. “ Now 
I come to think of it,” he continued, “ Dr. Robson from 
Belford is in the house, he came over to the ball. We could 
easily ask him to see her.” 

Jane Cuthbert looked at him quickly. “ I suggested it,” she 
said, “for I was talking to Dr. Robson for a long time this 
evening. But, Anthony, she will not hear of it. The very idea 
of seeing a doctor appears to be repugnant to her. I dropped 
the subject, for I saw that it really annoyed her, and she would 
have got quite feverish if I had insisted. Now she is quietly in 
bed, and I hope she will sleep if she is left perfectly quiet.” 

“ Then what is it you fear ? ” asked Anthony. “ A mis- 
carriage ? ” 

Miss Cuthbert looked away and her face became salmon 
colour. “Really, Anthony, it is a very unpleasant matter to 
discuss with you ; but, yes ! I don’t know much about these 
things, naturally ; but, of course, one’s experience with the poor 
people teaches one something. As you know, she has made no 
secret of her state to me. But there are symptoms, well, which I 
think should not exist at present, though they would be perfectly 
normal some weeks hence.” 

“ But now you think she will sleep, that there is no real danger 
of — of anything happening ? ” 

“ Yes. I sent for Mrs. Mitchell. She will remain with her 
until she goes off to sleep. One can trust Mrs. Mitchell, she will 
not talk to the other servants. But you, Anthony, what is the 
matter with you? You look nearly as white as Sonia did. Have 
you heard anything unpleasant, I mean about poor Jim ? ” 


344 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


Anthony hesitated. “ Sit down, Jane,” he said, after a pause, 
“ I wish to consult you. You and I,” he added, “ are the last 
Cuthberts in the direct line, and we have both to think of what 
to do for the best as regards the name and the place.” 

“ In a short time we may not be the last Cuthberts in the direct 
line,” observed Jane, looking at him inquiringly. “ But what do 
you want to consult me about, Anthony ? ” 

He told her in a few brief words what the Tynedale farmer 
had said to him that evening. Jane Cuthbert looked very grave. 
“ Are you sure there was no mistake ? ” she asked quickly. “ The 
young man may have mistaken some casual visitor to Warkworth 
for Jim.” 

Anthony shook his head. “ I wish to God I could think 
there had been a mistake,” he replied. “That young Wedder- 
burn knows Jim perfectly well. I have seen them talking to each 
other out hunting. How Jim failed to recognise him, I don’t 
know. I suppose he never noticed him, or took him for some 
tourist. Jane,” he added, “what do you make of it? What 
should have taken Jim to Warkworth from Ross-shire ? Good 
heavens ! don’t you understand the terrible suspicion that I cannot 
get out of my mind ? Laura — Sonia went to Warkworth — have 
you forgotten that? You offered to accompany her, but she 
would not hear of it. She was undone to go there alone, and 
would not even take a servant with her.” 

Jane Cuthbert was silent for a few moments. “ It is im- 
possible,” she exclaimed at length, “incredible. Why should 
they wish to meet, and how could they ever have known one 
another? The whole thing is a coincidence, Anthony. What 
took Jim to Warkworth, I have no idea. But it was very natural 
that Sonia should wish to see the place, and you have no proof 
that they were there on the same day.” 

“ It is no coincidence,” returned Anthony Cuthbert abruptly. 

“ Then how do you explain it ? ” 

“That is just it ! I cannot explain it. Nobody can do so 
but Laura herself. I meant to have told her at once what I had 
heard from Wedderburn, but if she is in the state you say, how 
can I?” 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


345 


“ No, no, Anthony ! ” exclaimed Jane Cuthbert hastily, “you 
must say nothing to her yet — you must not indeed ! I am cer- 
tain that any shock or violent emotion now would have — oh, very 
deplorable consequences. Do not do anything rash; but wait 
until she is stronger. I agree that the combination of circum- 
stances is a very strange one, but when we all know that Sonia 
and Jim are still strangers to each other, what can it be but a 
coincidence ? If you remember, you told me yourself Sonia had 
not even understood that Jim’s name was not Cuthbert.” 

“I remember,” replied Anthony, “I remember everything. 
And little details which I sometimes noticed and then dismissed 
from my mind as trifles now come back to it. I do not think 
that I ever told you, Jane, but the very first evening we were at 
Cuthbertsheugh we sat in this room after dinner. I was busy 
looking through a quantity of letters which had accumulated 
while I was away, and she was sitting where you are now. Sud- 
denly I heard her make some slight exclamation, and when I 
turned round I saw that she was standing in front of the Meleager 
there. I told her of its curious likeness to Jim, and it was then 
she heard Jim’s surname. I thought at the time that she asked 
rather eagerly about him, but it was natural she should be 
interested, after all I had told her of him. I was telling her how 
Jim had been in Malta with his regiment, and had made an ex- 
pedition to Sicily from there, when suddenly I saw her totter, and 
she fell in a dead faint at the foot of the statue.” 

Miss Cuthbert gazed steadily into the fire near which she 
was sitting. “No, you never told me that,” she said presently. 
“Mrs. Mitchell told me to-night that Sonia had fainted once 
before, on the evening of her arrival here, but of course Mrs. 
Mitchell knew none of these details. But how came it, Anthony, 
that you had never before told Sonia that Jim’s name was not 
Cuthbert, but Sinclair? Surely you must often have talked 
about him to her.” 

“ I did often talk about him. But I suppose I never alluded 
to him in any other way than as my nephew, or as ‘ Jim ’ ! The 
name ‘ Jim ’ she believed to be one of our full Christian names ; 
and she evidently had no idea that it was only an abbreviation 


346 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


for James. That also dawned upon her immediately after her 
arrival here, for when she heard the people talking of Mr. James, 
she thought they were alluding to some one actually present and 
—Ah ” 

He broke off abruptly, with a slight groan. “ What is it ? ” 
asked Miss Cuthbert quickly. 

“ Only another coincidence ! ” returned Anthony bitterly. “ It 
never recurred to my mind until now. Up to the moment when 
she heard that my nephew’s real Christian name was James, she 
had been gay and animated, and had been talking to all the 
people round us. Directly she heard the name she seemed to 
change. She grew very white, and complained of being tired and 
of having a bad headache. Then I took her to her room, and 
left her to rest till dinner. All these things come back to me now, 
Jane, and what I then looked upon as trifles or coincidences, I 
now begin to see may have had a very different significance.” 

Jane Cuthbert’s gaze returned to the fire again. “ What is it 
that you fear, Anthony ? ” she asked. 

“ I hardly know. I scarcely dare to think what it is I fear. I am 
working in the dark, Jane. But something tells me that Wedder- 
burn’s son made no mistake. He did see Jim at Warkworth : 
and the woman who, as he told his father, looked like a foreigner, 
must have been Laura — Sonia. Jim’s disappearance dates from 
that meeting, as also does that ridiculous business of the cheque. 
Jane, my wife knows. I am convinced of it. All that has 
happened has been the result of some arrangement made between 
them that day at Warkworth. But I will not be kept in the dark 
any longer. I will know the truth, whatever it may be — the 
truth as to what it is that has ruined Jim’s life, and brought a 
dishonour upon us which we are obliged to try to hide from the 
world by lying to every one in the county.” 

Miss Cuthbert’s face wore a deeply troubled expression, but 
she roused herself from her reflections and spoke with something 
of her usual energy and directness. 

“ You said just now that we two were the last Cuthberts in 
the direct line, and that it was necessary for us to do the best we 
could for the future of our name and of Cuthbertsheugh,” she 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


347 


said. “ I cannot tell yet whether there is anything in these 
suspicions you have got into your mind, or whether they are not 
merely nonsense. If there is anything in them, Anthony, you 
will have to act very cautiously ; otherwise you will be creating 
a bigger scandal than may beat all necessary. I should just keep 
my own counsel, and do nothing, if I were you, at all events for 
the present. Sonia is not in a fit state to be agitated. You must 
pretend to suspect nothing. I was to have left you after the 
New Year, as you know, but I shan’t. I shall stay on at Cuth- 
bertsheugh. I may be useful. Sonia likes me, and I like her. 
I don’t believe she has done anything wrong ; and, if she had, 
I should like her all the same. Of one thing I am certain. 
Whatever may have happened, I am sure that she is doing her 
best to be a good and loyal wife to you, otherwise I shouldn’t be 
so ready to stand by her. For Heaven’s sake, Anthony, don’t 
make a fool of yourself. Remember that if it had not been for 
Sonia’s advice, you would have made a fool of yourself already, 
and the whole county would know by this time that Jim had fled 
the country, and would have naturally concluded he had done so 
because he had forged your name for a large sum of money. 
Sonia persuaded you to keep silence, and not to write to Jim’s 
colonel, or do anything silly of that kind ! Her object in doing 
this could only have been her desire to avoid a scandal at Cuth- 
bertsheugh. I know that her first thought is for you, Anthony ; 
and, if you were to show her that you distrusted her, and that 
you suspected her of some disloyal conduct to you, she would 
be terribly distressed. Consider for a moment. As it is, every- 
thing has gone well. Nobody has the least idea that Jim’s 
absence from England is not due to a perfectly natural cause. 
In course of time he will no doubt let you know where he is 
and what he is doing ; and I firmly believe, that as soon as he 
feels able to do so, he will explain all about that cheque. Until 
then, I implore you to wait — to do nothing, and say nothing.” 

Jane Cuthbert spoke eagerly, even impressively; and An- 
thony could see that she was evidently genuinely alarmed lest he 
should question his wife, and tell her what he had heard that 
night. 


348 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


He sighed impatiently. “Well, Jane,” he replied, “under 
the circumstances, with my wife in the condition you tell me she 
is, it would be brutal of me to say anything to her which might 
seriously upset her. I am not going to do that. But, all the 
same, there is something in all this business which I cannot 
deceive myself is due to mere coincidences only. I shall say 
nothing to — to Sonia. But, unknown to her, I shall certainly 
take steps to find out where Jim has gone, and what he is doing. 
To do so may take some time; and you may trust me to act 
with caution. I shall never be easy in my mind until I have 
heard Jim’s explanation of what led to his going away ; for, of 
course, I no more believe that the forged cheque was anything 
else than a ‘ blind ’ than — than you do yourself. I am very glad 
you are going to remain at Cuthbertsheugh. It is a mercy that 
you and Sonia are friends. Perhaps she will feel able to talk to 
you more freely than she has lately done to me about Jim. I 
have noticed that she always avoids the subject with me if she 
possibly can do so — and her one fear seems to be lest I should 
determine to trace his whereabouts, and get into communication 
with him. You declare that her object in all this is to save him 
and ourselves from having to face a public scandal. I hope 
you are right, and that nothing else is responsible for her 
attitude.” 

“ What else should be responsible for it ? ” asked Jane 
Cuthbert. 

“ Ah ! there you approach ground on which I dare not 
venture as yet — even in my own thoughts. Go to bed, Jane, 
and try to go to sleep ! It is nearly two o’clock, and you must be 
tired. Do not be afraid that I shall do anything rash. For the 
present, I will not let Sonia have the least idea that — well, that 
I believe she knows more than we do of Jim’s reasons for hiding 
himself in this way.” 

“ Anthony ! ” exclaimed his sister. “ Whatever you do, 
don’t run away with the idea that Sonia does not love you, or 
would willingly do anything disloyal to you. If you allow any 
such idea as that to influence you, you will be doing her a 
terrible injustice. She would discover it instantly ; and, as I 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


349 

said just now, I believe the immediate consequences would be 
deplorable, more so, perhaps, than you can imagine.” 

“ Do not be afraid,” repeated Anthony, “ I will do nothing of 
the kind ; and, whatever my ideas may be, I will keep them to 
myself, at any rate for the present. You have not heard me 
blame anybody yet, have you, Jane ? neither Sonia nor Jim.” 

Miss Cuthbert looked at him curiously. “ No,” she replied, 
“ I have not.” 

“ And perhaps you never will,” continued Anthony gently. 
“ Good night, Jane,” he added. 

Jane Cuthbert straightened her cap, a truly British confection 
composed of white lace and black velvet bows, in which were 
glittering some diamonds which had belonged to her mother. 

“ Good night,” she replied shortly, and stalked out of the 
room, her dress of rich black moire silk rustling stiffly as she 
went. 


CHAPTER XXVII 


A FTER so hot a summer, it was in the natural sequence of 
L things that the Northumbrian winter that year should be 
unusually severe. A succession of heavy snowstorms in January, 
during which trains had been blocked, and more than one shep- 
herd and wayfarer had lost their path and subsequently their lives 
while tramping over the various passes in the Cheviots, had been 
followed by a prolonged black frost. It was the middle of Feb- 
ruary, and yet the frost showed no signs of breaking. Every now 
and then a furious north-easterly gale had raged, and the rock- 
bound coast of Northumberland told a dreary tale. A Danish 
steamer had been lost with all on board her one wild night on 
the cruel reef of Boulmer, and many a smaller craft had perished 
while vainly trying to make for one of the rare places of refuge 
between Berwick and the mouth of the Tyne. From the windows 
of Cuthbertsheugh nothing but one wide expanse of snow-covered 
hills and dales could be seen, and most of the by-roads had been 
impassable for several weeks. There was something inexpressibly 
weird and striking about the great, wild Border country lying 
silent in its white mantle under the grim, black sky. Everywhere 
a deathlike stillness reigned, broken in the woods by an occa- 
sional report like that of a pistol-shot, as a limb of some tree was 
cracked and riven in the iron grip of the frost. In the dreary 
dawn, and again as night was falling, strange cries of birds hurry- 
ing southward came from overhead — the clang of wild geese, the 
harsh trumpeting of swans, the quacking of duck ; and now and 
again the rushing sound of wings as the birds swept on their way 
from the coast in search of open waters and softer land where 
food could be found. Within the house at Cuthbertsheugh, with 
its massive walls and wide fireplaces, in which great logs of 
timber and blocks of Northumbrian coal blazed incessantly, it 

350 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


35i 


was warm and comfortable enough. Under other circumstances, 
the hard weather would have brought its own peculiar interests 
and enjoyments to the inmates of Cuthbertsheugh; for there 
were skating, sleighing, and curling to be indulged in, and only 
the hunting people grumbled at the frost. 

Ever since the night of the tenants’ ball Sonia had been more 
or less ailing. It was in vain that Anthony suggested that they 
should go southward to some warm seaside place in Hampshire 
or Devon. Nothing would induce her to move from Cuthberts- 
heugh, she declared ; and indeed there were some days when it 
was evident that she was unfit to take the long journey. She 
passed most of the time in her own room ; and any attempt on 
Anthony’s part to persuade her to go out of doors seemed invari- 
ably to excite and irritate her. It was certainly not, as Anthony 
had at first thought, because she minded the cold, for she did not 
appear to notice it. Like very many Italians, she dreaded hot 
weather far more than the coldest of temperatures, and often 
Anthony and Miss Cuthbert would find her standing at the open 
windows of her sitting-room gazing out over the snow-bound 
landscape. 

Between Jane Cuthbert and the housekeeper, Mrs. Mitchell, 
many private and mysterious conversations took place on the 
subject of Mrs. Cuthbert’s health; and both agreed that it be- 
hoved them to be prepared for an event which Mrs. Mitchell 
declared, in her opinion, would take place at a considerably 
earlier date than might naturally have been expected. Miss 
Cuthbert felt it to be her duty to warn her brother as to this 
possibility. Her position, poor lady, at Cuthbertsheugh was not 
altogether an easy one. Anthony, cautioned that any agitation 
might bring on a crisis greatly to be deplored, had not breathed 
a word to his wife of what he had heard on the night of the ball. 
He tried his best not to allow Sonia to see any change in his 
manner or demeanour, and endeavoured to disguise his ever- 
increasing preoccupation when he was with her. But the 
change was there, and Jane Cuthbert felt sure that her sister- 
in-law perceived it. She herself had pondered long and deeply 
over the strange coincidence that had taken Jim Sinclair and her 


35 2 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


brother’s wife to Warkworth, and over all the other incidents 
which Anthony had recounted to her, and she could not blame 
him for refusing any longer to regard them as purely accidental 
combinations of circumstances. Often when she was alone with 
her sister-in-law Miss Cuthbert attempted to lead the conversa- 
tion on to Jim and the mysterious reasons which had obliged 
him to leave England so hurriedly. A few weeks previously 
Sonia had readily discussed the matter, and it had been largely 
owing to her arguments if Jane had then been convinced that it 
was far wiser not to make any effort to unravel the matter, but to 
wait for Jim himself to explain it. Now, however, she could not 
but see that Sonia invariably changed the subject whenever 
Jim’s name was mentioned, and that she appeared to be made 
nervous and distressed by the slightest allusion to him. But of 
Anthony, of her husband, Sonia was never weary of talking when 
they were alone together, and by degrees Miss Cuthbert became 
more than ever convinced that, far from not sympathising 
with him in his trouble and disappointment concerning Jim, 
she was feeling for him most acutely. Latterly, Sonia had some- 
times upbraided herself for being unable to be of more comfort 
and help to Anthony — and then she would say bitterly that 
Anthony cared for his nephew more than he did for her; and 
that if she had never come to Cuthbertsheugh they would have 
been perfectly happy together. Jane Cuthbert wondered what all 
these things might mean. Was Sonia jealous of Jim ? It could 
hardly be jealousy which caused her occasionally to speak so 
bitterly ; for, if it were so, she would never have been so eager to 
shield Jim and to have advised against any action on Anthony’s 
part which might bring his nephew’s name into public disrepute. 
Were she jealous, she would have surely seized the opportunity of 
impressing upon Anthony how unworthy his nephew had proved 
himself to be of his confidence and affection. But she had done 
none of these things. On the contrary, she had shown a remark- 
able loyalty to Jim, and had seemed only to be anxious to associate 
herself with his family and to join with them in endeavouring to 
keep whatever he had done a secret from the outside world. 

February was drawing to a close, and still the frost held. 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


353 


Business had summoned Anthony to London ; and Sonia and 
Jane Cuthbert were left alone at Cuthbertsheugh. The manage- 
ment of the establishment, indeed, had gradually reverted into 
Miss Cuthbert’s hands, and this from no seeking or desire of her 
own. Several times she had suggested to her sister-in-law that it 
was high time she returned to her own house at Alnwick, and that 
she had no wish to outstay her welcome ; Sonia, however, would 
not hear of her leaving. As the days went on, she seemed to 
cling more and more to her presence at Cuthbertsheugh ; and 
Miss Cuthbert, who was fully as observant as her brother, and 
possessed of considerable shrewdness to boot, had long ago come 
to the conclusion that her company was desired by both husband 
and wife as a buffer. That this should be so was a genuine 
distress to her ; but it became every day more evident that the 
presence of a third person in the house was a relief to each of 
them. The more Miss Cuthbert watched the situation, the more 
perplexed she felt. The observations of the housekeeper, Mrs. 
Mitchell, did not tend to diminish her perplexity, while they 
materially increased her anxiety. That worthy dame made no 
secret of her conviction that Mrs. Cuthbert was, as she expressed 
it, two months ahead of her time. She, almost as much as Miss 
Cuthbert herself, was keenly anxious that Sonia should do what 
was expected of her, and maintain the hitherto unbroken record 
of male heirs to Cuthbertsheugh in the direct line. Her family 
had been on the Cuthbertsheugh estate for generations, and she 
herself had entered the service of the Cuthberts some forty years 
ago as an under housemaid, and had gradually risen to her actual 
honourable and responsible position. One of a race of servants 
almost extinct in England, “ the family’s ” interests were in her 
eyes inseparable as her own, and her loyalty to the name of 
Cuthbert was not only a personal feeling, but an hereditary tradi- 
tion. Jane Cuthbert knew that she could confide freely in Mrs. 
Mitchell, and that no word or hint in any way derogatory to the 
family dignity would ever pass the worthy woman’s lips. More- 
over, Mrs. Mitchell was devoted to Sonia — as, indeed, were all the 
members of the Cuthbertsheugh establishment. Being all north- 
country people, they liked her pleasant friendly manner with 
2 3 


354 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


them, and she had treated them all from the first as she had been 
accustomed to treat her Italian servants — not as mere machines 
paid to do certain duties, but as fellow-creatures of flesh and 
blood. The indoor domestics of Cuthbertsheugh, who were in 
daily contact with Mrs. Cuthbert, had never joined the little 
group of outsiders who had wished to lay the responsibility for 
Mistor-r James’ departure from the country at the door of his 
uncle’s foreign wife. 

It is not too much to say that Jane Cuthbert became a prey 
to the most intense anxiety as the evidence of her own senses 
and Mrs. Mitchell’s more practical experience combined made 
it obvious that at any moment the Cuthbertsheugh record might 
either be maintained or broken. But if this had been her only 
cause for anxiety, important as the issue was in her eyes, she 
would have been content to leave the matter to Providence. 
It was evident to her, however, that some trouble was weighing 
on her sister-in-law’s mind. What it was that was weighing 
on Anthony’s mind, she knew full well ; and during the last few 
weeks she had more than suspected that Sonia knew it also. If 
this were the case, she asked herself over and over again, why 
did not Sonia speak? If she, and she only, knew the real 
history of Jim’s flight, what possible motive could she have in 
keeping the truth from her husband? Even supposing that Jim 
and she had met that day at Warkworth — that he had taken her 
into his confidence — what could be the nature of a truth which 
had to be so carefully concealed from the individual who, of all 
others, had the best right to know it ? 

Sometimes it had seemed to Jane Cuthbert as though Sonia 
were longing to tell her something of what was troubling her. 
For the first time in her life, possibly, Miss Cuthbert blamed 
herself and her own method of procedure. She wished that she 
could be more sympathetic in her manner to her sister-in-law. 
But it was not in Jane Cuthbert’s nature to assume a sympathetic 
manner. The more genuine her sympathy, the rougher and less 
genial her manner was apt to become ; and a certain shyness and 
a morbid fear of being thought to be a woman of weak character 
would often cause her to say abrupt and apparently unsympathetic 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


355 


things when in reality her heart was full of quite other sentiments 
towards the individual whom all the time she was anxious to 
help or comfort. Latterly Miss Cuthbert had told herself a little 
angrily that a woman of a different nature from her own would 
doubtless have succeeded in winning Sonia’s confidence. She 
was wrong, though she did not know it. It had been her very 
abruptness and frankness which, while they had at first surprised 
her brother’s wife, had eventually attracted her. Sonia had 
quickly understood that Jane Cuthbert was trying to be friendly ; 
and she had appreciated the effort all the more because, from 
what Anthony had told her of his sister’s character, she knew 
that the effort was being made at the cost of sacrificing 
more than one deeply-rooted prejudice in the mind of the 
maker. 

Jane reproached herself for another shortcoming. When she 
had first made Sonia’s acquaintance, she had promised herself 
that in due course she would endeavour to instil into her mind 
the principles of a true Christianity, and eradicate by degrees the 
pernicious doctrines of Rome. As a matter of fact, Miss Cuthbert 
had made one or two preliminary sorties from her religious citadel, 
more for the purpose of reconnoitre than with any definite plan 
of attack. On each occasion, however, she had retired dis- 
comfited. The enemy had declined to fight, and had, moreover, 
displayed an absolute want of interest in the casus belli which 
had both astonished and perplexed the would-be adversary. 
Miss Cuthbert had encountered many things in her religious 
warfares, but she had never hitherto encountered supreme un- 
concern, except in the case of her brother, which she had long 
abandoned as hopeless. She had taken what little comfort she 
could to herself in the reflection that at any rate her sister-in-law 
was not a bigoted Romanist : and there the matter had ended, 
for Sonia had good-naturedly told her that though she was a 
Catholic in name, like the majority of her compatriots, she had 
long ceased to trouble herself as to what she was obliged or not 
obliged to believe; and that, in short, the whole subject of 
dogmatic religion in any of its forms was of no interest to her 
whatever. Jane Cuthbert had tried to be shocked, and to profess 


356 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


indignation, but her sister-in-law only laughed good-humouredly 
and changed the conversation. 

Nevertheless, there had been something in her manner which 
had made it impossible to return to the charge; and, oddly 
enough, Miss Cuthbert found herself quietly submitting to defeat, 
and actually respecting the straightforward attitude of her 
conqueror. 

Anthony Cuthbert had been absent only a day or two from 
Cuthbertsheugh when Sonia was taken suddenly ill. During 
the morning and at luncheon she had been in better spirits 
than Jane Cuthbert had seen her in for some time. After 
luncheon she had gone upstairs to her own sitting-room, where 
she usually spent her afternoons ; and Miss Cuthbert, wishing to 
take some calf’s-foot jelly to a sick woman in the village, had set 
off for a brisk walk across the snow-covered park. On her return 
to the house in the yellow twilight of the February evening, 
having been delayed longer than she had expected by a con- 
versation with the rector and his wife on parochial matters, she 
was met by the butler who, in mysterious accents, informed her 
that a groom had been sent to the village to look for her, as Mrs. 
Cuthbert was seriously unwell. The housekeeper, he added, was 
with her, but he understood that Mrs. Cuthbert had been asking 
for Miss Cuthbert repeatedly, and so a messenger had been sent 
to the village who must have missed her, Miss Cuthbert, as she 
had not returned by the road. 

Jane Cuthbert hastily divested herself of her cloak, and 
kicked off a pair of goloshes of no small dimensions. She did 
not need to be told what was the matter, and hurried upstairs to 
her sister-in-law’s rooms. Mrs. Mitchell advanced to meet her 
as she went through the sitting-room. The housekeeper’s face 
wore a look of gratification, ill-concealed by an expression of 
concern and anxiety. “You see how right I was,” was written 
clearly all over her countenance. She nodded expressively 
in answer to Miss Cuthbert’s whispered inquiry. “ Have 
you telegraphed to Alnwick for Dr. James?” Jane Cuthbert 
asked. 

Mrs. Mitchell raised her hands in despair. “ She won’t 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


357 


hear of a doctor being called in,” she replied. “ Mrs. Cuthbert 
keeps asking for you, ma’am. I have said all I could, but 
perhaps you will be able to persuade her.” 

“ Rubbish ! ” exclaimed Miss Cuthbert resolutely. “ I never 
heard of such a thing. Of course Dr. James must be sent for 
at once, and we must telegraph for Mr. Cuthbert.” 

She passed into Sonia’s room. “ What is it ? ” she demanded 
roughly, perfectly aware of the superfluousness of the question. 
Sonia was lying quiet, but Jane could see that she was crushing 
a piece of paper in her hand. 

She pointed to the open doors of the sitting-room. “ Shut 
them,” she said eagerly; “shut them closely, Jane. Mrs. 
Mitchell is in there, and I must speak to you alone.” 

Miss Cuthbert attempted to assume a soothing manner with 
but indifferent success. “You needn’t tell me what it is,” she 
said, “ I know perfectly well. Mrs. Mitchell is not in the 
sitting-room. I have sent her to telegraph for Dr. James to 
come out at once from Alnwick, and also to Anthony. Anthony 
will not be able to be here now until to-morrow morning. He 
will come down by the night express from London.” 

Sonia sat up excitedly. “ I will not have a doctor,” she 
exclaimed. “ Do you hear, Jane ? I will not ! ” 

“ Nonsense. You must have a doctor. What do you 
suppose people would say if it were known that — that you were 
confined, and had no doctor in attendance. You must be 
reasonable, Sonia, and allow me and Mrs. Mitchell to do what 
we consider proper. In Anthony’s absence ” 

“ Ah ! thank God he is away ! ” muttered Sonia. 

Miss Cuthbert stared at her. “ Probably everything will be 
happily over before he gets back,” she said in a voice unusually 
gentle. 

Sonia seized her hand. “ Sit down,” she said quickly, “ close 
to me, Jane. I have something to tell you, something that you, 
and you only, must hear and know. But first of all ring for Mrs. 
Mitchell to come back, and delay sending for the doctor until 
until you have heard what I have to tell you.” 

Jane Cuthbert hesitated. The imploring tone in her sister- 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


358 

in-law’s voice could not escape her notice. “ But I must send 
for him, Sonia,” she returned. “ It may be some hours before 
he is able to get out here, so you will have plenty of time to say 
anything you wish to me.” 

“No, no, do not send, Jane, I beseech you do not send for 
him ! For Anthony’s sake, for mine, for the honour of your 
family, do not send for any doctor.” 

Miss Cuthbert’s face suddenly grew rigid. Without a word 
she walked to the bell, and rung it sharply. In a few moments 
the housekeeper reappeared. “ Bring me some telegram forms,” 
she said to her; “I will write the telegrams myself for Mr. 
Cuthbert and Dr. James. Ah ! there are some on the 
writing-table, are there ? Very well ; I will ring again presently 
for you. In the meantime, I will remain with Mrs. Cuthbert.” 
Sonia cast a grateful glance at her; and Jane Cuthbert closed 
the double doors between the two rooms carefully, returning 
to her place by Sonia’s bedside. 

“What do you mean, Sonia?” she asked in a low voice. 
“ How can the presence of Dr. James, or any other doctor, 
damage the honour of our family? You are talking wildly. 
However, as you wish it so much, I will delay sending off the 
telegram until I have heard what you want to tell me.” Sonia 
unclosed her hand, in which was tightly clenched a crumpled 
sheet of notepaper. 

“ I got this by the post, soon after you went out,” she said, 
and held the paper out to her. Jane Cuthbert glanced at the 
writing on it, and as she did so, she started violently. “But 
that is Jim’s writing ! ” she exclaimed ; “ and yet ” — she paused, 
and taking the letter from her sister-in-law’s hand looked at it 
more attentively. “It is his writing,” she continued, “but it is 
written in pencil— a scrawl. Good heavens ! ” she added, as 
she read the uneven, straggling lines, “ he is ill — wounded. And 
he writes to you, Sonia, to you / What does it all mean ? Why 
does he write to you, when he does not know you ? ” 

Sonia gave a little cry. 

“Ah, my God!” she exclaimed. “Cannot you guess? 
cannot you guess, Jane? But no! how should you? How 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


359 

should you guess at anything so monstrous — so unutterably 
cruel ? ” 

Miss Cuthbert’s face and figure might have been carved out 
of stone. “ Speak ! ” she said abruptly. 

“ He did know me,” Sonia replied in a whisper. “ But, 
until it was too late, he never knew that it was I — the woman 
he once thought he loved — who had become his uncle’s wife. 
And I, I never knew, until it was too late, that the man whom 
I made love me was Anthony’s nephew — was Jim. When 
we — when I — found out, I wrote to him. We met that day I 
went to Warkworth ” 

“ Ah,” exclaimed Miss Cuthbert sharply, “ Anthony was 
right, then ! ” 

Sonia clutched her arm. “Anthony!” she said breath- 
lessly, “ Anthony ! He knows of our meeting at Warkworth ? 
But how could he know of it ? He has never said a word ! ” 

“No,” returned Jane Cuthbert icily, “my brother has never 
said a word. But, all the same, he has known of that meeting 
for some weeks. Jim was recognised at Warkworth. The 
person who recognised him did not know you by sight, but he 
described your appearance. Anthony told me of it. I tried to 
make him thmk that the whole affair was merely a coincidence, 
and that it was impossible it could have been you who were with 
Jim that day. He was not convinced, however — and, indeed, 
neither was I — for the combination of circumstances was too 
curious to be the result of mere coincidence. Anthony and I 
determined to keep silence until you should be stronger, Sonia 
— until his child should be born. Of course, no one could have 
expected the event to take place so soon. But, after all, seven 
months — ” and Miss Cuthbert paused in some confusion. 

She felt her hand gripped hard. “ Listen ! ” exclaimed Sonia, 
and her voice sank to a hoarse whisper. “Listen! Think of 
me as a wicked woman, an abandoned woman — anything you 
will; but save Anthony. He — Jim and I — have striven to save 
him from knowing the truth; and now Jim is wounded — my 
God ! — dead, perhaps, by this time ; for this letter is nearly a 
month old! Cannot you understand, Jane? cannot you guess? 


36 ° 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


In a few hours my child will be born, but it is not Anthony’s = 
That is why I will have no doctor. Seven months, did you 
say ? ” and Sonia laughed wildly and bitterly. 

Jane Cuthbert wrenched her hand away. “Sonia!” she 
cried, “ are you mad ? What horrible things have you got into 
your head? Not Anthony’s child — and you tell that to w*?, his 
sister ? Whose — whose — ? ” and then words failed her, and she 
sat staring at her sister-in-law in speechless wonder, forgetting 
even to be scandalised by what she heard. 

“We neither of us knew,” continued Sonia wearily. “We 
both thought ourselves free — independent ; that our — our passing 
liaison could harm nobody ” 

“ Ours ! ” 

“Ours — mine, and Jim’s. We met accidentally, when he 
was with his regiment at Malta ; and — and — Jane, do not make 
me put it into words, it is torture ! Think what you will of me, 
but help me to save Anthony. Perhaps I shall die. If I could 
only die, I should be thankful — so thankful ! — and he, Jim, would 
be thankful too. He said he hoped the child would die ; but 
the child is guiltless ! It is I, and I only, who am guilty.” 

Jane Cuthbert sprang hastily from her chair and walked to 
the window. Not a sound escaped her. And only Sonia’s 
quick and laboured breathing broke the stillness in the room. 

Presently she turned and came to the bedside again. “ Tell 
me all,” she said in a low voice. “ Tell me all, and then I will 
think.” 

Rapidly, hurriedly, Sonia told her everything ; and gradually, 
as she listened, and as the full truth became clear to her, Miss 
Cuthbert’s face softened, and the hard, rigid expression gave 
place to one almost of compassion. Sonia’s very severity — nay, 
brutality — towards herself appealed to something in Jane Cuth- 
bert’s sterner and colder Northern nature. There was no attempt 
at excuse, no desire to shield herself. In short, simple sentences 
Sonia related the story of her temporary intimacy with the man 
whom she had afterwards discovered to be her husband’s nephew 
and devoted friend, and their grief and horror at finding out 
when too late at what a terrible cost the realisation of their 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


361 


desires had been accomplished. Had there been a word of 
exculpation, an attempt to excuse herself for having tempted Jim 
beyond his strength, it is certain that Miss Cuthbert’s attitude 
would have been very different. She found herself wondering 
why she was not more scandalised ; why the stern sense of 
morality which was engrained in her nature did not cause her 
to rise up in her wrath and denounce her brother’s wife as an 
abandoned woman who had committed an altogether unpardon- 
able offence. Up to now she had flattered herself that she knew 
human nature. But as she listened to Sonia’s story she realised 
that there were by-paths in it which were now for the first time 
revealed to her. She recognised that here was a woman with a 
temperament and a nature entirely and absolutely different from 
the Anglo-Saxon, and her own English sense of justice told her 
that it would be unfair to judge her from the standpoint of 
another race. Moreover, Sonia’s loyalty to Jim in taking all 
the blame of their passing intimacy on herself, coupled with her 
evident devotion to Anthony and intense anxiety that, if possible, 
he should be spared all knowledge of the terrible complication 
this intimacy had produced, had the result of reducing Jane 
Cuthbert’s moral indignation to a degree of moderation at 
which she herself was vaguely conscious of being considerably 
astonished. 

Sonia’s eyes fixed themselves anxiously and imploringly on her 
sister-in-law’s face as she finished her story. “You will help us,” 
she said, pointing to Jim’s letter, “to save Anthony from ever 
knowing the truth ? You have read what Jim says. When he 
wrote this letter he believed himself to be dying, and he places 
me upon my honour to continue to keep Anthony in ignorance. 
It is he, Jim, who has suffered more than I who was the more 
guilty, and now — now, probably, he is dead, alone there in that 
wild country, passing under another name as an ordinary soldier, 
because he loved Anthony ” 

She raised herself excitedly and grasped Miss Cuthbert’s hand 
again, holding it tightly between her own. In the first moments 
of shock and amazement at what she heard, Jane Cuthbert had 
done little more than glance through the letter. That her nephew 


362 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


should be wounded, even dangerously, had seemed a matter of 
secondary importance beside the almost unthinkable situation by 
which she was confronted. She disengaged herself from Sonia’s 
grasp and took up the letter which was lying on the bed. It was 
very short, but the contents were as Sonia had said. “ I do not 
think I have many days to live,” Jim wrote, “and when I die 
nobody will know that I was anybody else than trooper James 
Smith. It will be the best solution of the difficulty, the best way 
out ! We have both sworn to keep Anthony in ignorance, and I 
am sending you these lines to tell you that I hold you to your 
promise to keep up the deception to the end. I have made 
arrangements that after my death a packet which I have kept by 
me always should be sent to Anthony. It contains the bank-notes 
I received for the forged cheque. He will guess from this that I 
never meant to defraud him, but in the letter accompanying the 
packet I have given him no explanations. He must always 
continue to think — what he likes ! ” 

Jane Cuthbert read the lines through to the end ; and when 
she turned again to Sonia two tears were trickling down her face, 
and her voice was unsteady. 

“ But Anthony — knows,” she said hesitatingly ; “or, if he does 
not know, he more than suspects the truth. I am sure of it. The 
truth cannot be hidden from him for many hours longer, Sonia ! 
Do you not understand ? But you do understand, otherwise you 
would not insist that no doctor should attend you ! My God ! 
what are we to do?” and Jane Cuthbert wrung her hands in 
despair, all her rigid composure seeming to desert her for the 
moment. The two women gazed at one another in silence ; and 
then Miss Cuthbert, with a visible effort, succeeded in mastering 
her emotion and in regaining something of her habitual authori- 
tative manner. “ You must let me telegraph for Anthony,” she 
said decidedly. “ I shall do so in any case. Have you not told 
me that, before you consented to marry him, you confessed to 
having had, h’m — a love affair, and that he understood you had 
yielded to a sudden temptation, and forgave it? I know my 
brother, and I believe he would forgive you anything but a wilful 
deception. Moreover,” and she laid her hand upon Jim’s letter, 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


363 

“ if you show Anthony this it will lift a terrible load off his heart, 
bad though the news is of Jim. He will understand that directly 
you and Jim realised your position you only thought of how you 
could save him pain. But if you were to keep this letter a secret 
from him, if you were to deceive him about Jim, then I believe 
he would never forgive you — or me, for helping you to deceive 
him. God forgive me,” Jane Cuthbert continued, wiping her 
eyes, “ but I used to think that Jim was not worthy of Anthony’s 
affection for him, and that it was he who was preventing Anthony 
from marrying again and having a son to come after him at 
Cuthbertsheugh, but now — ” and she paused, unable to control 
her voice. “ Take Anthony into the secret, Sonia,” she continued 
abruptly. “ He must know that — that the child could not be his, 
for — well, nobody who sees the child could be deceived into 
believing that it had been born two months before its time. How 
could you ever think that you could keep up the deception when 
once the child was born? People will think — I mean, the 
doctor, who must be sent for — and Mrs. Mitchell, for we will 
not allow any one else to see it — that — that — ” and Miss Cuthbert 
averted her eyes from Sonia’s face. 

“ That — what ? ” asked Sonia faintly. 

“ Let them think anything they like,” replied Miss Cuthbert 
brusquely ; “ anything but the truth ! Dr. James will not talk — it 
would be a breach of all professional etiquette were he to do so 
— and Mrs. Mitchell is far too devoted to our family ever to say 
a word. They will draw their own conclusions, of course, and 
think that— well, that my brother should have married you before 
he did.” Miss Cuthbert’s face assumed a salmon-coloured hue, 
and she blew her nose with unnecessary violence. 

“ But Anthony — what will he do, what attitude will he take 
up ? ” asked Sonia hurriedly. 

“ I don’t know,” replied Miss Cuthbert shortly. “ He is a 
man, and I am a woman. I know what I should do where the 
honour of our family name was concerned, and I think my 
brother will do the same. He will say nothing, and accept the 
child as his own. At any rate, Sonia, you must trust to his 
generosity. There is nothing else to be done. I will stand by 


3^4 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


you. It is not for me to judge you, and I’m not going to do so. 
If you had been an unfaithful wife to my brother, it would have 
been another matter ; but you have not been that, and you told 
Anthony of — of what had happened before you agreed to marry 
him. Good gracious, Sonia ! ” 

Jane Cuthbert broke off suddenly, and hastening to the 
sitting-room summoned Mrs. Mitchell, who was waiting in it. A 
few minutes later a groom was despatched to the post-office, with 
telegrams to Dr. James in Alnwick and to Anthony Cuthbert 
in London. 

And in the small hours of the following morning a son was 
born to the mistress of Cuthbertsheugh. The perfectly developed 
little form caused the doctor and the old family housekeeper to 
exchange looks pregnant with meaning. Mrs. Mitchell, perhaps, 
was not so scandalised as she might have been. In her class in 
the north country marriage was not infrequently delayed until 
its due celebration became an obvious necessity, if the usages 
of respectable village society were to be maintained. When he 
was able to leave Sonia’s room, Dr. James descended to the 
library, where Miss Cuthbert was awaiting his report. Jane 
Cuthbert went to meet him as he entered the room ; but she did 
not speak, though she looked at him with anxious inquiry in her 
eyes, and her handsome features were more than usually rigid and 
severe. The doctor gave her a shrewd, penetrating glance, and 
hesitated for a moment before he spoke. Then he pulled up 
his collar and adjusted his necktie. “ A remarkably fine boy 
Miss Cuthbert,” he observed, “quite astonishingly so — er — under 
the circumstances ! It seems that the old record of Cuthberts- 
heugh is still to be carried on unbroken.” 

Their eyes met ; but still Jane Cuthbert remained silent. 

“ It is very unfortunate that Mr. Cuthbert should be absent,” 
proceeded Dr. James, “ but no doubt he will arrive in a few 
hours. I regret to say, Miss Cuthbert, that your sister-in-law’s 
condition gives me some anxiety. I shall, of course, remain here 
for the present. Mrs. Mitchell is invaluable — a most discreet 
woman and thoroughly to be trusted ” — and again a swift, compre- 
hensive glance flashed from his keen grey eyes — “ but as soon as 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 365 

the telegraph-office opens I shall wire to Newcastle for a trained 
nurse.” 

“Not before my brother arrives ! ” interrupted Miss Cuthbert 
abruptly. 

“ It will not be necessary for her to see the child,” returned 
the doctor quietly. 

Jane Cuthbert glanced at him quickly. “ You will do as you 
think advisable, Dr. James,” she said. “ My brother should be 
here by nine o’clock. Is — is her life in danger ? ” she added 
hastily. 

“ My dear madam, there is always danger ! Things have not 
gone so satisfactorily as could be wished. You must remember, 
too, that Mrs. Cuthbert is no longer quite a young woman, 
and this is her first confinement. There are symptoms I do not 
like, but we will hope that they will pass. Mrs. Cuthbert is 
naturally intensely anxious that her husband should return, and 
we must do all we can to keep her quiet during the next few 
hours. Now, if you will excuse me, I must return to my post. 
Pray understand, my dear Miss Cuthbert, that you can rely on 
my discretion as implicitly as upon that of Mrs. Mitchell. Per- 
haps you will be so kind as to tell Mr. Cuthbert this as soon as 
he arrives ; ” and without giving Jane Cuthbert time to reply, the 
doctor hurried out of the room. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


T HERE was no sleep for the inmates of Cuthbertsheugh 
that night. It was at once known throughout the house- 
hold that Mrs. Cuthbert had given birth to a son and heir ; but 
the knowledge that the doctor from Alnwick was by no means 
satisfied with her state created a feeling of consternation and 
alarm which caused the advent of the baby to become a matter 
of altogether secondary importance. Miss Cuthbert spent the 
early hours of the morning in pacing restlessly up and down 
the library, occasionally going upstairs to Sonia’s sitting-room, 
where Dr. James was installed and ready for any sudden 
emergency which might arise. Once or twice Sonia had asked 
for her sister-in-law, and Jane Cuthbert had been allowed to 
go to her. The doctor and Mrs. Mitchell had tactfully retired 
into the adjoining room, leaving them alone together. It was 
in vain that they had tried to keep their patient quiet; and 
it was evident to Dr. James that Mrs. Cuthbert was a prey 
to some intense mental restlessness and anxiety which for the 
moment was triumphing over her physical exhaustion, and was 
counteracting even the effects of the morphia he had administered 
in order to calm her. Miss Cuthbert’s presence, indeed, seemed 
to work more beneficially than any drug; and the doctor was 
under the impression that she had no doubt soothed Mrs. 
Cuthbert’s troubled mind by assuring her of the discretion both 
of himself and Mrs. Mitchell, and by promising her that the 
world would never suspect that she had not been confined 
prematurely. Dr. James, in common with the old house- 
keeper, was not greatly surprised at the situation. He, too, had 
come to the conclusion that Anthony Cuthbert should have 
married his wife fully two months before he had married her. 

366 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 367 

A rapid mental calculation reminded him that Mr. Cuthbert 
had actually been on the Continent at the approximate date 
when, judging by present events, he should been already married 
to his Italian wife; and he formed his conclusions accordingly. 
There had always been something mysterious about Anthony 
Cuthbert, the doctor told himself, and, like many another 
marriage, this one had evidently been an afterthought. Mr. 
Cuthbert would, of course, pretend to regard the confinement 
as altogether a normal one ; and if the family at Cuthbertsheugh 
were satisfied, there was nothing more to be said. In the mean- 
time he was, as he had told Miss Cuthbert, not at all easy in 
his mind as to Mrs. Cuthbert’ s condition. To Mrs. Mitchell 
he had felt himself able to enter into details, and that worthy 
woman realised that there was every ground for anxiety as to 
what the next few hours might bring about, especially if, as 
seemed but too probable, Mrs. Cuthbert’s intense mental restless- 
ness were to continue. To his great satisfaction, however, his 
patient had appeared to be much calmer after a second short 
interview with her sister-in-law. What had passed between the 
two women, Dr. James, of course, never knew; but he noticed 
that, when Miss Cuthbert left the room on the second occasion, 
she had in her hand a crumpled piece of paper which he had 
seen tightly clenched in Mrs. Cuthbert’s grasp during the preced- 
ing hours. After this, the injections of morphia which had been 
administered seemed for the first time as though they were to 
have their desired effect ; for Sonia became quieter, and eventu- 
ally fell into a troubled sleep. The doctor went into the sitting- 
room and lay down on a sofa, leaving Mrs. Mitchell by Sonia’s 
bedside. He was an elderly man, and could not afford to lose 
more rest than was necessary. His life was a hard one; and 
many a time when he had just returned home from his pro- 
fessional round of visits he would receive some urgent call, 
perhaps obliging him to drive miles over the bleak moorlands 
in order to assist suffering mortals in their entrances to or exits 
from the world. 

It seemed to Dr. James that he had only been dozing for a 
few minutes when he opened his eyes to find Mrs. Mitchell stand- 


3 68 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


ing beside him with an expression of consternation and alarm on 
her face. In an instant he was on his feet, and had hastened 
into the bedroom. Sonia was awake. She had partially raised 
herself in the bed ; and as Dr. James advanced towards her he 
stopped for a second, amazed at the look on her face. The 
strained, drawn expression, telling of mental suffering greater 
than her physical pain had vanished, and in its place was a look 
of wonder, and almost of awe. There was another expression on 
it too — one that the doctor’s practised eye knew well how to read, 
and which caused him to give Mrs. Mitchell a rapid but signifi- 
cant glance. Apparently Mrs. Cuthbert recognised neither of 
them. She was perfectly calm. “ Anthony — my husband — has 
he come yet ? ” she asked. “ I must see him, and give him the 
message. Why does he not come ? ” 

“In a very short time he will be here, Mrs. Cuthbert,” said 
Dr. James soothingly ; “ you have been asleep, and have been 
dreaming.” He poured a small quantity of a cordial into a glass 
as he spoke, and put it to her lips. “ You must drink this,” he 
continued, “and try to go to sleep again until Mr. Cuthbert 
arrives. As soon as he comes we will tell you.” 

Sonia looked at him quietly. “ No,” she said in a whisper, 
“ I have not been dreaming. You are Dr. James, are you 
not ? Of course ! For a moment I thought — ” and she broke 
off and gazed at him earnestly. 

“ My dear lady,” said the doctor airily, “ you see I am quite 
right — you have been dreaming. Probably you have dreamed of 
some message you had to give to Mr. Cuthbert. Now, do not 
think any more about it, but try to sleep again. Your husband 
will soon be here — in another couple of hours, probably — and 
when he comes, we must be able to give him a good report of 
you, as well as of his son and heir ! ” 

Sonia’s gaze never left his face, and the doctor averted his 
own uneasily. “You can give a good report of me,” she said, 
with a faint smile, “ the best ! I am dying.” 

“ Rubbish, madam, rubbish ! ” exclaimed Dr. James testily. 
Sonia’s eyes contracted, with a look almost of impatience. 
“ I am dying,” she repeated, “ I feel it — know it ! Will Anthony 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 369 

— my husband — arrive before I die? That is all I want to 
know ” 

“ A great many years before,” returned the doctor gruffly. 

“ I want the child — bring him to me.” 

It was the first time she had asked to see her baby. The 
infant was sleeping peacefully, and Mrs. Mitchell laid it gently 
beside her. For a few minutes she gazed at its features in silence. 

“ Les desirs accomplish she said to herself aloud, presently, 
and her two hearers were under the impression that she was 
talking to herself in the Italian tongue. Dr. James looked at her 
keenly and critically. It was evident that she was terribly weak. 
He glanced across at Mrs. Mitchell, and gave an imperceptible 
shake of his head. Sonia intercepted both the glance and its 
accompanying gesture. “You see that it is I who am right,” 
she said with a smile. “You will try to keep me alive, but I do 
not intend to be kept alive. The child will live, and it is better 
that I should go. I — I — ■” her face changed suddenly, and the 
faint colour in it gave place to a deadly pallor. “ The message — ” 
she whispered — “ your message — I will give it to Anthony — if he 
comes — and if not, Jane will give it him, and he will under- 
stand everything. He will know that we did what we thought 
for the best — you and I ” 

The faint voice died away into silence, and Sonia’s gaze seemed 
to fix itself on some object beyond the doctor whose hand was 
now on her pulse. She seemed unconscious of his presence, 
unconscious, also, of the little form lying beside her. 

Dr. James turned to the housekeeper. “ Miss Cuthbert,” he 
said quickly — “tell her to come at once. She is sinking fast, 
there is internal hemorrhage and the heart is failing.” He spoke 
in a rapid whisper, and Mrs. Mitchell quickly left the room. 
Through the heavily curtained windows the pale light of a 
February morning crept fitfully. 

“ Air,” Sonia murmured, “ I want air ! ” Dr. James went to 
the windows and drew back the curtains, raising the blinds and 
letting in the white rays of the newly risen sun. Then he re- 
turned to the bedside, to do all that his professional skill could 
suggest to him to save a life which he knew was fast ebbing 
24 


37 ° 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


away. It was in vain that he attempted to deceive his patient 
as to her state. From the first he had been dissatisfied with 
Sonia’s condition, and he had not shrunk from explaining to 
Miss Cuthbert the reasons for his anxiety. In many instances 
he had witnessed the beneficial effect of mind over body, the 
triumph of the will to live over the threatening assaults of death. 
But now, to his despair, he felt that his patient herself was 
fighting against his skill ; that she wished to surrender. He 
looked down at the child, unconsciously sleeping at its mother’s 
side, and he said to himself that there, in its perfectly formed little 
limbs and fully developed frame, lay the explanation of the mother’s 
desire to yield herself up to death. There was some mystery 
here, some secret into which it was no part of his professional 
duty to enter. Whatever it was, it was clear that Miss Cuthbert 
was aware of its details. She had not expressed the slightest 
astonishment or embarrassment when he had given her clearly 
to understand that the son Mrs. Cuthbert had just borne to her 
husband stood in no need of the artificial care which would have 
been necessary in the case of a child arriving in the world two 
months before its natural time to do so. And if Miss Cuthbert 
was aware of the fact, it was obvious that her brother must be 
aware of it also ; and that they had already determined in their 
minds as to the course to be pursued in order that no dis- 
agreeable comments should subsequently be made outside the 
walls of Cuthbertsheugh. 

“It is nearly eight o’clock,” Dr. James said gently. “In 
another hour Mr. Cuthbert will probably be here.” 

He thought to himself that in another hour, so soon as the 
telegraph office should open, he would telegraph to Newcastle 
for another opinion, and for the services of a professional nurse, 
if, indeed, when that time came it should not be evident that 
before either could reach Cuthbertsheugh Mrs. Cuthbert would be 
beyond the reach of any mortal aid. It seemed almost as though 
Sonia divined his thoughts, for she said quietly, “ You have 
done all you could, Dr. James, and I am very grateful. But I 
will be quite frank with you. I do not wish to live. My life 
would be an embarrassment to myself, and to others. I wish my 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


37i 

child to live — and he will live, will he not ? ” and she looked 
anxiously into the doctor’s eyes. 

“ There is no fear ot that,” Dr. James returned gruffly. “ And 
you too, Mrs. Cuthbert,” he added, “ you have no right to give 
up your life when by making an effort of your will you could help 
those about you to preserve it. Think of your husband, think of 
your child ! your life is very necessary to both of them.” He 
spoke abruptly, almost roughly, for, like all north-country men, 
his manner was apt to be rough when his feelings were the most 
moved. 

Sonia smiled faintly. “ It is of my husband and of my child 
I am thinking,” she said slowly. “ It is better as it is, and, in 
time, they will be the happier that I am no longer in the world.” 
Then a flash of her natural humour and cynicism came into her 
eyes. “ Look at him,” she continued, laying her hand lightly on 
the sleeping child. “ He is — what do you say in English ? — com- 
promising, is he not ? ” 

Dr. James stared at her. “Compromising?” he repeated. 

“ But certainly ! You know as well as I do what people will 
say, if they knew all that you know. My position, if I lived, 
would not be a pleasant one, and I have no intention that my 
husband should have to endure any mortification on my account. 
People would say, Dr. James, that Mr. Cuthbert had married his 
mistress, only that he had not done so soon enough. Do you 
understand ? ” 

Dr. James coughed, and pulled hastily at his collar. “Of 
course, Mrs. Cuthbert,” he said quickly, “ I cannot pretend to 
misunderstand you. Unluckily the child’s condition tells its own 
tale. But that is none of my business. A doctor’s lips are sealed 
as much as those of a priest.” 

“ Per caritk ! ” ejaculated Sonia in her own tongue. “ We 
will hope that they are sealed more securely than those of the 
priests ! ” she continued in English. 

“ It is a question between Mr. Cuthbert and yourself,” pro- 
ceeded Dr. James, “but both you and he may rely on — well, on 
my professional honour, Mrs. Cuthbert. There is no reason why 
the world should ever know that you had not been confined of a 


372 ANTHONY CUTHBERT 

seven months’ child. But you have no right not to do all in your 
power to live.” 

“ Could I live ? ” asked Sonia abruptly. 

The doctor hesitated. “ It would be useless to deny that 
your life is in grave danger,” he answered. “You know it your- 
self. But that is no reason why you should surrender it without 
a struggle — without an effort of the will to help those who are 
striving to save it.” 

Sonia smiled. “ It is better as it is,” she said, and then with 
a little sigh she closed her eyes and lay still. 

The door of the bedroom opened noiselessly, and Jane Cuth- 
bert came in. She cast a quick glance at the doctor, who shook 
his head ominously. Sonia opened her eyes and smiled at her 
sister-in-law. “ Has Anthony come ? ” she whispered. 

“Not yet, dear Sonia, but he may be here now at any 
minute.” 

Dr. James retreated into the sitting-room, leaving the two 
alone together. Sonia took her hand and held it within her own. 
“Listen, Jane,” she murmured hurriedly; “I have a very short 
time left — I know it ! Perhaps I shall be already gone when 
Anthony comes. Listen 1 I went to sleep, and then I awoke ; 
but when I awoke it seemed to me that Jim was by me, that he 
was standing there, where you are now. I heard his voice, Jane, 
as clearly as I hear yours. His voice said, ‘ Tell Anthony every- 
thing ; he will understand and forgive. Tell him that we both 
died — you and I — to save him from any dishonour coming to him 
and to Cuthbertsheugh by our fault.’ Jim is dead,” she con- 
tinued quietly, “but his child lives — and will live. Nobody need 
ever know. Dr. James thinks the child is Anthony’s — God for- 
give me ! — but I lied on my deathbed, for Anthony’s sake. Jane, 
if Anthony arrives too late — tell him — tell him everything, and 
tell him, too, that Jim came to me and said that Anthony would 
understand — and forgive. Swear to me that you will tell him.” 

Jane Cuthbert sank on her knees beside the bed, and her 
voice was broken with tears. “ I swear it ! ” she said solemnly, 
“ but oh, Sonia, I pray to God that Anthony may be in time — 
that you may be able to tell him yourself! Jim is right — 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


373 


Anthony understands, and forgives — I am sure of it. He will 
recognise the child as his own — for your sake and for Jim’s — for 
he loved you both. Sonia, there is one thing I must say to you ! 
Would you — would you not like me to send for one of your 
priests ? ” 

Sonia shook her head. “ I want no priest,” she said quietly. 
“ I know what I have done wrong — better than any priest can tell 
me — and if Anthony will forgive me, surely God will ! No, Jane, 
I want no priest about me. I am not at all afraid of God. I trust 
Him : and He must dead with me as He thinks fit. But I will 
not listen to any priest — ah ” 

A low murmur of voices came from the sitting-room, and 
suddenly Sonia raised herself, with a look of eager expectancy in 
her eyes. 

“Anthony!” she cried, “Anthony!” and her voice rang out 
clear and strong. Then she turned to Jane Cuthbert. “The 
letter ! ” she exclaimed, “give me the letter ! Anthony must read 
it, and then I will give him Jim’s message.” 

Jane Cuthbert placed it in her hand. “ He shall come to 
you, dear,” she said gently. “ One moment while I speak to him, 
and then you shall be alone together.” 

Sonia sank back on her pillows, breathing rapidly. A cry 
broke the silence — the cry of a baby wakened from its first sleep 
— and then Anthony Cuthbert crossed the room with uneven 
steps and placed his arms gently round his wife, while Mrs. 
Mitchell bore the infant away to the adjoining apartment. 


CHAPTER XXIX 


N EARLY five years had passed away since Anthony Cuth- 
bert’s second wife was laid to rest in the churchyard of the 
village near Cuthbertsheugh. The sympathy of all classes of the 
community throughout the neighbourhood had been ungrudgingly 
tendered to Mr. Cuthbert in his sudden bereavement ; and this 
sympathy had been redoubled when it became known that on the 
very day of his wife’s death his nephew, Captain James Sinclair, 
had succumbed to the effects of a severe wound which he had re- 
ceived in one of the numerous skirmishes then taking place on 
the frontiers of India and Afghanistan. How or why Captain 
Sinclair happened to be on active service in India, and why his 
name never appeared in the Gazette among those of the officers 
killed or wounded during the campaign, remained a mystery. 
Only a very few people knew that trooper James Smith, who 
lingered for a month in hospital and then died, and Captain 
James Sinclair was one and the same person. The colonel of 
Jim’s regiment, however, knew it, and had always known it. 
Before Jim Sinclair sent in his papers and ceased to be an officer 
in Her Majesty’s service, he had had a long interview with his 
colonel, who had used every argument to induce him to recon- 
sider his decision. It had only been when Jim implored his com- 
manding officer and friend not to question him as to details, but to 
accept his statement that he was leaving the country in order to 
protect a woman’s honour and the honour of another person very 
dear to him, that the colonel held his peace and had desisted 
from inquiring further into the matter. His authority had 
sufficed to put a stop to any conjectures which Jim’s abrupt re- 
tirement would otherwise certainly have called forth among his 
brother-officers and in the regiment generally ; and to him alone 

374 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


375 


had Jim confided his intention to enlist as a private soldier under 
an assumed name in one of the regiments then on active service 
on the Afghan frontier. The colonel had kept this confidence 
as sacred ; but, all the same, he had not lost sight of its giver. 
He had placed himself in communication with the general in 
command of the Afghan expedition, who was an old friend and 
comrade, with the result that trooper James Smith, all unknown 
to himself, was watched by his superiors, who were perfectly well 
aware that he was a gentleman and a good officer, serving as a 
private soldier for certain reasons of his own into which it was no 
part of their duty to enter or investigate. When trooper Smith 
had been carried to the rear severely wounded, it had been hoped 
that he would eventually recover. It soon became evident, how- 
ever, that recovery was impossible. When Jim knew that he had 
only a few hours more to live, he had written his letter to Sonia, 
and had entrusted it, together with a packet addressed to Anthony, 
to the captain of his company, who was with him to the end. 
The letter had been despatched instantly, but the packet was 
retained, according to Jim’s request, until it could be taken to 
England by a sure hand and consigned to the person to whom it 
was addressed. And then he had met death without a word of 
regret or complaint. Those around him waited in vain for a 
single sentence to escape his lips which should give a clue to his 
real identity. Until quite the last he was conscious, and it was 
only a few minutes before his spirit passed that he seemed to 
wander in his mind. “ Tell Anthony everything, Sonia ; he will 
understand and forgive. Tell him everything.” And then his 
eyes closed, and he spoke no more. 

The general in command wrote a line to his friend telling him 
that though for nearly five weeks “trooper James Smith ” had re- 
ceived every care and attention in hospital, he had unfortunately 
succumbed to his wound. The letter went on to say that “ trooper 
Smith ” had been respected and trusted by officers and men alike, 
and that he had died without uttering a word to reveal his true 
identity, though he had delivered to his captain a letter addressed 
to a lady in England, and also a packet which he had requested 
should be entrusted to some officer returning home on leave, as 


376 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


it contained a considerable sum of money in bank-notes. The 
general had evidently made himself acquainted minutely with all 
the circumstances attending the death of the man who had chosen 
to be known only as a private soldier ; and though he made no 
comments, and asked no questions, his letter showed that he fully 
realised that some tragedy lay behind the whole matter — a tragedy 
which respect for the loyalty of the dead made it incumbent on 
the living not to attempt to unveil. 

When Jim’s late colonel received that letter, his eyes grew 
suddenly moist ; and then he swore. Sitting down at his desk, 
he indited a carefully worded letter to Anthony Cuthbert, of 
whom Jim had often spoken to him in former days ; and whom, 
indeed, he had met on one occasion when Jim first joined the 
regiment. In reply he had received an urgent request from Mr. 
Cuthbert to meet him in London. The meeting had taken 
place, and the colonel had never forgotten it. He found a man 
bowed down by grief, and yet bearing himself with a certain 
quiet dignity which was strangely impressive. There was a kind 
of tender pride in Anthony Cuthbert’s manner when he spoke 
of his nephew which touched the soldier keenly. Few words 
passed between them; but those few words served to confirm 
the colonel in his suspicions that Jim Sinclair had sacrificed 
himself to save the honour of the man with whom he was 
conversing. 

For nearly four years after his wife’s death, Anthony Cuthbert 
had not resided at Cuthbertsheugh. The place was closed, and 
Mr. Cuthbert hired a small country-house in the south of Eng- 
land, in which he lived with Miss Cuthbert and the child whom 
the whole world believed to be his own. Recently, however, 
he had taken up his residence once more at Cuthbertsheugh; 
and once more Jane Cuthbert ruled over the old house she 
loved so well. Her rule was now a mild one. Indeed, Miss 
Cuthbert was strangely softened ; and her whole life was devoted 
to taking care of her brother, and of the little heir to Cuthberts- 
heugh who was to keep unbroken the family tradition of which 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


377 


she was so proud. That the little heir was in reality something 
of a fraud practised upon an unsuspecting county did not appear 
to trouble Jane Cuthbert at all. The boy had the old Cuthbert 
blood in his veins, and that was enough for her. Apparently 
it was enough for Anthony Cuthbert also. He was absolutely 
devoted to the child, who every day grew more and more like 
Jim Sinclair. More silent and reserved than ever, his face would 
light up and its sadness vanish when the sturdy little boy was 
near him. 

Occasionally Miss Cuthbert would feel herself called upon 
in the interest of the child’s future welfare to remonstrate with 
her brother. 

“You spoil Jim shockingly, Anthony,” she would say to him. 
“What will you do when he has to go to school?” 

And so the years passed on ; and Anthony Cuthbert lived to 
see the child of the two people he had loved the best in his life 
grow into a tall healthy lad on the verge of manhood ; a strikingly 
handsome boy, combining the beauty of both his parents to- 
gether with something of his mother’s Southern gracefulness and 
charm of manner. “Mistor-r James” was a favourite throughout 
the Border country around Cuthbertsheugh, and nothing pleased 
Anthony more than the devotion he saw springing up between 
the boy and the people of the place which would one day 
be his. 

It was summer again, and Anthony Cuthbert and his sister 
were sitting together on the terrace beneath the old grey walls 
of the peel-tower, looking at the tender evening lights gradually 
stealing over the Cheviots. Presently Jim Cuthbert approached 
them, followed by a young keeper carrying half-a-dozen rabbits 
over his shoulder. 

“ Six rabbits in six shots with my pea-rifle, father,” the boy 
called out triumphantly. “ Have you any tea left there ? I’m 
so thirsty ! ” 

Anthony Cuthbert smiled, and poured out a cup of luke- 
warm tea, which Jim drank off hurriedly. 

“ We are going down to the river,” he said ; “ Geordie says 

25 


378 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 


there are some grilse come up. What do you think would be a 
good fly to use, father ? ” 

Anthony considered the important point for a moment. 
“Well,” he said, “I should put on a small Jack Scott, and if 
you don’t get a rise with that, try one of your sea-trout flies. I 
think I will come down presently and watch you.” 

The lad darted away, and Anthony looked after him as he 
disappeared round the corner of the house. 

“ I wonder, Anthony — ” began Miss Cuthbert, and then she 
stopped. 

“Yes? what do you wonder?” 

“ I wonder how many men would have taken it as you have 
taken it ? ” 

Anthony Cuthbert smiled, and looked away into the glow 
of the sunset. 

“ Tout comprendre , dest tout pardonner /” he observed. 

“ What did you say ? ” 

“A wise saying and a true one. When one understands, 
one forgives. But I have had nothing to forgive ; only some- 
thing to understand ! ” 

“Yes. But many men would not have understood.” 

“ Perhaps not,” returned Anthony drily. “ But what is 
much more curious,” he added, with a gleam of humour in his 
eyes, “is how j you have understood, Jane ! ” 

Miss Cuthbert hesitated. “I?” she replied. “I really do 
not know. I think Sonia taught me to understand. I suppose 
it is useless to expect people all to be cast in the same mould. 
Poor, dear Sonia; I was very fond of her, Anthony. After all, 
she had a son. If it had been only a daughter ” 

“ You would not have understood so well,” Anthony inter- 
posed, smiling again. 

Jane Cuthbert took no notice of his remark. 

They sat for some time in silence. The sun sank below the 
hills, and the long, Northern twilight began to fall on the valley 
of the Till. 

Presently Anthony rose from his chair. “ Let us walk 
down to the river,” he said, “and see if Jim has got his grilse. 


ANTHONY CUTHBERT 379 

Yes, Jane,” he added, “it is quite true. To understand is to 
forgive.” 

Jane Cuthbert gave a quick sigh. “ If they could hear you 
say that ! ” she said, wistfully. 

Anthony Cuthbert cast a long look into the red glory of 
the western sky. “ I believe that they do,” he replied. 


Printed by Ballantyne, Hanson 6° Co. 
Edinburgh <&-» London 











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